Another wave of shivering slashed through me. This time I didn’t fight it when he shifted even closer. An arm brushed my back cautiously, giving me plenty of time to swat him away.
I didn’t.
I leaned in.
It was automatic—a gravity thing more than a decision. My body tipped infinitesimally toward the nearest stable point, and apparently that was him. My shoulder bumped his chest. His arm came up reflexively to steady me, palm broad and firm between my shoulder blades.
For a second, we both froze.
Then he exhaled slowly, the movement of his chest a subtle rise against my arm, and adjusted his grip to something more obviously supportive and less like he was afraid of spooking me.
I rested there. Not fully against him—we weren’t cuddling on the sidewalk like idiots—but close enough that his warmth seemed to reach me, even through the turnout coat and my sweatshirt.
If I thought too hard about it, I’d pass out just to avoid the emotional implications.
So I didn’t think. I just let myself not hold my own weight for a minute.
“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 outsawhorses 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.
