Chapter 6 #2
I shake my head, applying burn gel with careful movements. Luke’s arm is solid muscle under my fingers, warm and strong, and I have to concentrate to keep my touch clinical. “You firefighters are all the same. Total martyrs.”
“We are not.”
“Right.” I wrap a loose bandage around his forearm, my fingers brushing against his skin. “That’s why you’re sitting here with an untreated burn, planning to ‘take care of it later.’”
I’m concentrating so hard on the bandage that I don’t notice we have an audience until Luke shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
I glance across the street. “Why are your firefighters watching us like that?”
Through the open bay doors of the fire station, I can see several men in uniform standing around, all staring in our direction with expressions ranging from curious to amused. One of them—a tall guy with dark hair—nudges another and points at us.
Luke follows my gaze and his jaw tightens slightly. “Ignore them.”
“They look confused.”
“They’re always confused. It’s their natural state.”
I finish securing the bandage and look up at him. “Seriously, what’s their problem?”
Luke pulls his arm back gently and rolls down his sleeve. “They’re probably wondering why I’m making such a big deal out of a minor burn.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. I study his face, noting the slight flush on his cheeks, the way he won’t quite meet my eyes.
“Are you?” I ask quietly. “Making a big deal out of it?”
For a moment, Luke doesn’t answer. Then he looks at me directly, his blue eyes intense. “Maybe.”
The honesty in his voice makes my pulse quicken. “Why?”
“Because,” he says, his voice dropping lower, “it got you to take care of me.”
The honesty in his voice makes my pulse quicken, and suddenly I can’t breathe properly. Heat floods my cheeks as the implications of his words sink in. My hands shake as I pack up the first aid supplies, shoving them back into the kit with more force than necessary.
“Because it got you to take care of me.”
His words are like a slap. I was genuinely concerned about him, worried that he was hurt, and he was just... manipulating the situation? Playing on my emotions for what—entertainment?
I’m on my feet so fast the chair scrapes loudly against the concrete. “I was genuinely worried about you,” I say, my voice tight with embarrassment and something that feels dangerously close to hurt. “For you to mock that concern—”
“Hazel, no.” Luke stands too, wincing slightly as he moves, and I wonder bitterly if that’s real or just another performance. “I wasn’t mocking you.”
But I’m already turning away, my face burning with humiliation. Of course he was playing me. Of course this was all some kind of game to him. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let my guard down again?
“Hazel, wait.” His hand catches my wrist, and the contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. I hate that my body still responds to him this way. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
I keep my back to him, not trusting myself to look at his face. Not when I can feel tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. “Let me go, Luke.”
“I just missed you,” he says quietly, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache in ways I’m not prepared for. “I missed this. I missed you caring about me.”
The admission makes me stagger, threatening to crack open all the carefully constructed walls I’ve built around my heart. But I can’t let him in again. I can’t survive being broken by Luke Harrison again.
“Well, I didn’t miss you.”
The words come out cold, final. A lie so complete it tastes bitter on my tongue, but necessary. Self-preservation at its finest.
“I don’t believe you.”
Before I can protest, his hand tightens on my wrist, and he pulls me back toward him. I stumble, off-balance, and suddenly I’m falling into his lap as he settles back into the chair. My heart lurches—part panic, part something I refuse to name.
“Luke!” I gasp, very aware that we’re in full view of the street—and more importantly, his entire crew across at the fire station. I can feel their eyes on us, can practically hear the gossip mill starting to churn.
His arms come around me, holding me steady, and his blue eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes it hard to think.
This close, I can see every detail of his face—the small scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell out of Sam’s treehouse at twelve, the way his lashes are unfairly long for a man, the stubble that’s appeared since this morning.
“Did you really not miss me at all?”
“No,” I whisper, but my voice lacks conviction and we both know it.
His face is so close to mine I can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes, can feel his breath on my cheek. “I missed you every day for eight years,” he says quietly, and the pain in his voice is so raw it makes my throat tight. “You broke my heart when you left.”
The color drains from my face as his words hit me like ice water. He thinks I broke his heart? After what he did? The injustice of it, the sheer audacity, makes anger surge through me hot and swift.
“I didn’t break your heart.”
“Hazel—”
“I didn’t break your heart,” I repeat, more firmly this time.
I push against his chest, trying to get up, but his arms don’t loosen.
My voice rises slightly, emotions threatening to spill over.
“I was kind to you before I left, despite what you did to me, because I didn’t want you to lose what little family you had left. ”
Confusion flickers across his features, genuine and complete. “What I did to you? What are you talking about?”
The question makes me want to punch him as fury rears its ugly head. He doesn’t even remember. Or worse—he’s pretending not to remember. The betrayal cuts deeper than it did eight years ago, if that’s even possible.
I manage to pull free from his arms and stand up, my legs unsteady beneath me. My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure everyone within a block can hear it. When I speak, I force my voice to be calm and steady, even though everything inside me is screaming, fracturing, bleeding.
“I stayed away for eight years because I knew you needed my family.” Each word is carefully measured, controlled. “If they found out what you did to me, they would have turned their backs on you. And while you hurt me, I would never do to you what you did to me.”
The confusion on his face deepens, and somehow that makes it worse. “Hazel, I don’t understand—”
But I’m already walking away, my steps measured and controlled despite the chaos in my chest. I can feel his eyes on me, can hear him calling my name, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. If I look back, if I see the confusion and hurt on his face, I might crumble completely.
I get into my car—Sam’s so-called “death trap”—and for once, I’m grateful for its temperamental nature. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the ignition. The engine doesn’t catch on the first try, or the second, and panic starts to claw at my throat.
Please start. Please just start.
On the third try, the engine finally turns over with a reluctant cough. I pull away from the curb without looking back, my vision already blurring with unshed tears.
I drive automatically, muscle memory guiding me through the familiar streets until I find myself on the old logging road that leads into the state forest. I need somewhere private, somewhere no one will find me, somewhere I can fall apart without an audience.
The gravel road winds deeper into the woods, past the old quarry and the swimming hole where we used to spend summer afternoons. I pull into the small clearing where teenagers used to park, where the trees form a natural barrier from the outside world.
It’s only when I’m safely hidden among the maples and oaks, their autumn leaves creating a canopy of gold and red above me, that I finally let myself fall apart.
The tears come in waves, eight years of suppressed pain and grief and heartbreak pouring out all at once.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles are white, my forehead pressed against my hands as I cry for the girl I used to be.
The one who believed in forever and happily ever after and thought that love conquered all.
The one who trusted completely and gave her whole heart to a boy who threw it away like it meant nothing.
I cry for the eight years I spent trying to forget him, trying to build a life that didn’t have a Luke-shaped hole in the center of it. Derek’s betrayal that somehow hurt less than this five-minute conversation with Luke, because at least Derek had never owned my soul the way Luke had.
I cry for the family dinners I missed, the holidays I spent alone, the careful distance I maintained because staying away was the only way to protect the people I loved most from the truth of what their golden boy had done.
And underneath it all, I cry for the part of me that still loves him. The part that leaped to take care of his injury, that wanted to believe his confusion was real. But love isn’t enough. Not when trust is shattered beyond repair. Not when forgiveness feels impossible.
That’s the worst part. After everything—after the betrayal, after eight years of silence, after the way he just manipulated my concern for his own entertainment—some traitorous part of me still responds to him.
I hate myself for it almost as much as I hate him.
When the tears finally slow, I sit in the growing dusk surrounded by the quiet of the forest. My eyes are red and swollen, my face blotchy. I look exactly like what I am—a woman whose carefully constructed defenses crumbled in the space of five minutes.
The silence of the woods wraps around me like a blanket, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a hawk. Here, hidden away from prying eyes and well-meaning questions, I can finally breathe again.