Chapter 6 #2
“I should’ve fixed the damn door,” I muttered into the mask. The words fogged the inside of the plastic.
He made a low sound, half sigh, half frustration. “Maybe. But you survived. That’s what matters.”
“Feels like what matters,” I said, voice cracking, “is that my truck is ruined, and I almost died because I’m cheap and stubborn and didn’t want to pay a specialist to fix it.”
His hand on my back tightened. “Jess. Look at me.”
I didn’t want to. My eyes stung for reasons that had nothing to do with smoke, and I didn’t need anyone, least of all him, seeing that.
He waited. Of course, he did. Stupid patient firefighter.
Eventually, because he was annoyingly persistent and because some traitorous part of me wanted to know what his face looked like right now, I dragged my gaze up.
Those dark eyes were full of shadows and smoke, along with a faint echo of fear at the edges, and an anger that didn’t seem directed at me so much as at the universe in general.
“You didn’t almost die because you’re cheap.
You almost died because accidents happen fast. Because a circuit blew and smoke filled a small space and you were alone. That’s it. That’s the whole equation.”
“I ignored you,” I said. “About the latch.”
“You ignored one warning from a man you don’t like,” he said. “I can’t exactly blame you for that.”
I almost laughed, except nothing about this was funny. “I don’t—” The word caught, because suddenly hate felt too strong and too simple. “It’s not that I don’t like you.”
His brows ticked up the tiniest bit. The pressure of his hand on my back never changed.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “What is it?”
Not the time. My whole nervous system threw up a big red STOP sign.
I shook my head, regretted it immediately when my vision swam. “Not now.”
He held my gaze a heartbeat longer, then nodded. “Not now,” he agreed.
The silence that followed implied there would be a later. A version of the future where I still had bandwidth for our stupid ancient high school thing on top of dealing with smoke damage, insurance claims, and rebuilding from whatever charred wreckage remained of my coffee bar.
It was ridiculous. And also weirdly comforting.
The oxygen hissed steadily, its rhythm matching the slow in-and-out of my breathing.
Around us, the chaos had begun to quiet.
The worst of the flames were out; the men moved with the more measured efficiency of cleanup.
Someone had dragged out sawhorses to block traffic.
The air still stank, but the sharp edge dulled as the night breeze picked up.
From the other side of the street, footsteps pounded, too light and fast to be one of the guys. “Jess!”
I stiffened instinctively before the voice even registered. Powell’s hand stayed right on my shoulder.
Pepper dropped to her knees on my other side so hard her palms slapped the concrete. Her curls frizzed out from what looked like either frantic running or a hair tie emergency, and her cheeks flushed with cold and panic.
“Oh, my God.” Her eyes tracked from my face to the oxygen mask to the turnout coat and back again. “Oh my God, are you okay? Rhett called about the fire.”
Of course, her firefighter captain husband would let her know. He was probably around here somewhere as incident command.
“I’m fine,” I lied automatically.
She gave me a look that said she didn’t buy that for a hot second. Her gaze flicked over me again, no doubt taking in the soot on my skin and the tremors I couldn’t quite stop. Then she shifted her attention to Powell, like she suddenly realized how close we were.
Something unreadable crossed her face.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Just doing my job,” he replied, though his voice had that same rough edge it had when he’d said my name.
My shoulder felt suddenly exposed when he eased his arm away, letting Pepper crowd in. The mylar blanket stayed, still draped around me, but the loss of his solid presence at my back left a strange absence, like stepping off a moving walkway and misjudging the floor.
Pepper braced one hand on my knee, the other hovering near my arm. “What do you need?” she asked. “Tell me what you need and I’ll handle it.”
The instinct to say I’m fine rose again, habitual and useless. My throat closed around it.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. The words tasted like defeat and ash. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Pepper’s fingers curled gently around my knee. “Then we start with getting you home. Or to my place. Or to Meghan’s. You are not staying by yourself tonight, okay?”
Home. My tiny apartment above the consignment shop. The thought of sitting alone in that quiet space with the scent of smoke still clinging to my hair made my stomach roll.
“Your place,” I said after a second. “If that’s okay.”
Her expression softened. “Of course it’s okay.”
Someone called Powell’s name. He glanced back, then down at me again.
“Do you need help getting up?” he asked.
For a second, pride reared its familiar head, ready to insist I could stand without assistance, walk it off, do a few cartwheels to prove it. Then another small tremor ran through my legs.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Probably.”
He offered me his hand, no flourish, no commentary.
I took it.
He pulled me up slow and steady, like he had all the time in the world. The street tilted for a second. His other hand came up, hovering at my elbow until the ground settled back into place.
Up close like this, looming over me in full gear, he looked even bigger than usual. Broader. More solid. The knowledge that mass of muscle and determination had hauled me out of a fire was… unsettling in ways I didn’t have the bandwidth to unpack.
I realized I still held his hand and let go like it had burned me.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
He smirked, tired but genuine. “You’re allowed to hang on, Jess.”
Heat crept up my neck that had nothing to do with the fire. I curled my hands tighter into the mylar so I’d have something to do with them besides fidget.
Pepper tucked herself under my other arm, wedging in like a much smaller, aggressively determined crutch. “I’ve got her,” she told him.
“I know you do,” he said.
Our eyes met one last time. There was so much in his face I didn’t want to see—relief, worry, something like resolve—that I had to look away before it lodged somewhere dangerous.
“Thank you.” The words came out rough and soft and very, very real.
For the first time in a decade, there was no sarcasm between us. No armor. Just gratitude.
His mouth flattened, like he fought off something too big for here and now. “Anytime,” he said.
He meant it.
I turned away before I could do something really stupid, like cry or hug him or apologize for holding a grudge I hadn’t been ready to let go of.
Pepper steered me carefully down the sidewalk, past the knots of onlookers pretending not to stare. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on the weight of my friend’s arm around my waist.
I didn’t let myself look back until we reached the corner and I could pretend I was just checking for traffic before we crossed.
He was still there, a tall, soot-streaked figure standing near what remained of my truck, watching to make sure I didn’t fall.
For once, I didn’t hate that he was.
And that scared me almost as much as the fire had.