Chapter 3 #2
“Can you tell me when I’ll be able to get back out there?” He barely spares me a look. The distance he’s putting between us is a one-eighty from the guy in my helicopter.
If he thinks his bad attitude is going to scare me away he’s going to be disappointed.
“So, when can I get back out there?” he asks again, patience thinner than his hospital gown.
Out there.
Not out of here. Not discharged.
“You’re a fool.”
My candor doesn’t phase him.
“Probably. But it’s never stopped me before.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “Should I call psych?”
“You could just answer me. Or can you not since you’re off duty?”
“Answer me first. Are you in danger of doing something reckless?”
“Not exactly in the position to.”
“You seem like the type who’d find a way.”
There’s a brief moment of tension, before his posture relaxes. “Tell you what. Give me the whole truth, and I’ll be on my best behavior.”
Relenting, because I didn’t come here to argue, and honestly, I’m too damn tired.
“That’s up to your doctor, but it’s safe to assume it’ll be awhile.
” I collapse into the seat beside his bed, letting my head fall against the back.
He eyes me skeptically, like he’s a breath away from asking what the hell I think I’m doing.
Funnily enough, I couldn’t explain it if he did.
I’ve been forced over twice this week due to low staffing that put me well over forty hours. Exhaustion is my default state at this point, but I let the chair take a fraction of it. I’m too tired to be here, but too tired to drive. This chair is my home now.
When I crack my eyes open to check on a silent Emmett, I see he’s still staring at that damn TV. I stretch, grabbing the remote from the table between us and turn it off. Becky says he barely sleeps—just watches the news and stares at the wall.
“What the hell.” His voice is rough scratch.
I almost feel bad for getting him excited enough to raise his voice. But at least it’s something besides indifference.
“The crews have the fire contained past the ridge. They’ll manage without you while you heal, Hotshot,” I mumble, curling deeper into the chair.
Yes, this could work. It’s just comfortable enough that it’s tempting me to settle in for the long haul, instead of a brief respite.
The worn vinyl urges me to ignore the urge to busy myself doing something to help Emmett—to make him more comfortable.
His jaw flexes, making his already chiseled features sharper as frustration bleeds into fatigue and I lean forward, readying myself for whatever he needs. But when he settles back, I recognize the familiar discomfort of being still.
Helping makes me feel useful. It’s where I fit.
And it’s my brothers’ favorite joke. They call me “Little Miss Fix-It.”
But helping gives me something to do . . . something I can do.
Emmett Slate should slot neatly into that category of people I can help and move on from.
So why am I still in his room?
I’ve seen him. He’s okay.
His eyes from the helicopter flash through my mind. He looked at me like I wasn’t just useful—but real.
I still don’t know what to do with that.
“Feels wrong.” His voice is low and scratchy, pulling me from my thoughts.
His Adam's apple bobs with a swallow that doesn’t quite clear the gravel from his voice. “Sitting here, while my crew is still out there.”
I frown because it’s exactly how I’d feel.
That thought has me realizing something I didn’t see before.
We’re both fixers in our own way.
“You did your part . . . and then some.” I stop and wait for the tightness in my throat to ease. “Thank you hardly seems adequate. Not many people would put themselves between someone else and a fire.”
Something in him goes still.
For the first time since stepping inside his room, recognition flashes across his face; his head tilts. “You did.”
I huff out a quiet breath, brushing it off instead of letting it land.
For a second, his gaze holds mine—steady, searching, just like he did in the helicopter.
Then it’s gone, shuttering just as quickly, whatever loosened in him pulling tight again beneath the surface.
“I wasn’t sure if you remembered,” I admit. “You were pretty out of it.”
He shrugs, something easing in him a fraction. “Didn’t at first.” He lets the pillows take his weight, and it feels an awful lot like trust. “So, you weren’t an angel.”
“The only wings I have are the ones embroidered onto my flight suit.” I adjust his blanket, already stepping back. “Try to get some sleep. It might make the difference in getting out of here sooner.”
I linger for longer than I should, but he doesn’t look at me again.
Like whatever softened him toward me never happened.
I’ve seen two versions of him now: The one that held on like I was the only thing keeping him grounded. And this closed-off version who’s quick to pull away.
I don’t know which one is real.
And somehow, that unsettles me more than it should.
The longer I look at him, the more time I spend with him, the more I see pieces of everyone I love most.
Or maybe I’m seeing something that’s not there.
“Need anything before I leave?” I test.
Again, he just stares at the ceiling.
All right. I can take a hint.
I put my back to him, resigned to being wrong about him.
It was the intensity of the extraction, or the emotions from the fire. Nothing more.
“What’s your name?” he asks when I reach the threshold.
Over my shoulders, I find his eyes on me. The very same ones that seared my soul the first time.
He doesn’t look away as I hold his stare.
“Aspen,” I answer, after a beat.
“You should get some sleep too, Aspen.”
His breathing evens out, and when it hits a soft, easy rhythm, I step over the threshold, back into the hall.
I’ll be back.
I shouldn’t, but I will be.