“You don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t, but I’ll be here first thing after my shift ends. I’ll help you clean up and see what needs to be done to bring the wiring back up to code.”
“But—”
“Emmy.” His voice dips. “Let me help.”
Something inside me unclenches.
I nod.
“Since you won’t go to the ER, you should head home now. Nothing else you can do tonight.”
“My coat, keys, my purse…it’s all inside. I need to go get it,” I say, shedding the blanket.
“You shouldn’t go back in there.”
I grab Haye’s forearms. “Ineedto or I’ll never be able to sleep tonight.”
I won’t be able to sleep either way, I’m sure of it, but I’m not telling him that.
Hayes blows out a deep breath. “Okay, fine. Come on, but make it quick. Get your stuff and get out.”
He escorts me back inside. My heart squeezes in my chest as I survey the damage.
“Can I at least clean the dough and all these pastries up?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and curses. “Em.”
“I can’t leave it like this.”
He mutters my name again—low, resigned, defeated by the one force in the universe he’s never been able to battle: me.
“Two minutes,” he says. “And I’m helping.”
I nod, already moving toward the counter. The bowl of buttercream is half-splattered, the mixer smudged with soot. My heart aches painfully at the sight of the half-finished cake, itswarm gingerbread layers sitting practically untouched on the far prep table.
Hayes grabs a trash bag from the storage closet and holds it open while I scrape in the ruined dough, the scorched towel, the frosting and the gingerbread layers that picked up too much smoke.
“This stuff was good, huh?” he asks.
“Was going to be great.” My throat tightens.
He notices—of course he notices. Hayes’ eyes soften and he places a steadying hand against the small of my back. “You’ll make another batch tomorrow or the next day. And the next one will be better.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Yeah, I can,” he murmurs. “Because you’re you.”
The simple certainty in his voice hits harder than the fire ever could.
We move quietly after that, sweeping up the extinguisher residue, clearing the countertops. It’s not much—nothing that actually fixes anything—but my heartbeat finally starts to slow. My hands stop shaking.
When we’re done, Hayes flicks off the lights and guides me out with a gentle brush of his palm against my lower back. He locks the door behind us, steps out into the cold night, and the world feels too quiet.
“Emmy.” His voice is soft. “You’re exhausted.”
“I know.”
