Saxon
It’s almost midnight when I drag myself up Briar’s porch steps. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t have the right. But after the shift I just had, the only place my body seems capable of moving toward is hers.
The house is dark except for a warm lamp glow through the curtains. I sink down onto the top step, elbows braced on my knees, head hanging as I suck in a sharp breath. My turnout gear still smells faintly like smoke. My eyes burn. My muscles ache. And my brain—my brain won’t shut up. It never shuts up on nights like this.
The door creaks open behind me. I don’t turn.
Her voice is soft. Careful. “Saxon?”
I exhale slowly. “Yeah.”
“What are you doing here?” she whispers.
“Not sure.”
She steps outside, barefoot, wrapped in a ridiculous oversized sweatshirt that hits mid-thigh. Her hair is messy, likeshe was half asleep. She looks like peace I don’t deserve. She sits beside me without asking, knees brushing mine.
“Rough shift?” she asks quietly.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She waits. Doesn’t push. That’s why I can talk to her. I stare at the dark yard. The pines sway. The night is quiet except for the faint hum of insects.
“A rookie froze on a call,” I say. “Small structure fire. Routine. Should’ve been easy.”
Her breath catches. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. I covered him. Got him out.” My jaw tightens. “But it shouldn’t have happened.”
She rests her hand lightly on the porch between us. Not touching me. Just close.
I swallow hard. “I lost a man two years ago.”
Her head turns sharply. “Saxon…”
“He was twenty-five. Kid could outrun me any day of the week. Smart. Fast. Good instincts.” My voice drops. “We were inside doing a sweep and the roof collapsed. I was six feet ahead of him.”
She’s silent.
“Sometimes I think… if I’d told him to slow down. Or speed up. Or take a different entry. Or stay with another crew.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Sometimes I think every choice I make costs someone something.”
“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s fair. It’s true.”
I finally look at her.
She’s watching me with something soft and painful in her eyes.
“You haven’t slept,” she says.
“No.”
“You carry too much.”
“Someone has to.”
“Not alone,” she says quietly.
