I slow only because my legs threaten to give out beneath me.
And then I see her.
Wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, her small face smudged with soot, oxygen mask slipping slightly as she talks animatedly to someone kneeling in front of her.
Relief hits so hard it steals my breath.
I rush forward, dropping to my knees in front of her, pulling her into my arms, pressing my face into her hair like I need proof she’s real.
“I’m here,” I whisper, over and over. “I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”
She clings to me, then pulls back just enough to grin.
“Mom,” she says proudly, I want you to meet someone. She points past me. “This is the man who saved me.”
I turn.
And there he is.
Brendon.
Kneeling on the pavement, soot streaked across his jaw, his eyes fixed on my daughter with an intensity that makes my chest ache.
For a long moment, all I can do is stare at him.
At the man who once broke my heart.
At the man who just brought my whole damn world back to me.
TWO
BRENDON
The call comes in, the radio crackling to life just as I’m tightening the strap on my turnout pants.
“Structure fire. Pine and Alder. Possible occupants inside.”
My body reacts before my mind does.
I move across the bay, hands sure, practiced, grabbing my coat, my helmet. The smell of diesel and metal and coffee hangs in the air, familiar and grounding. I’ve done this a thousand times in a dozen different places, but this one feels different.
This time I’m not saving the world. I’m saving my home.
Chief Aaron’s voice cuts through the movement, calm and steady as he snaps into command. Justin and Kendrick are already in motion beside me, the four of us falling into rhythm like we’ve trained together for years instead of months.
“Welcome to your first call,” Justin mutters as we climb into the truck.
I don’t answer. My jaw is too tight for that.
The engine roars to life, lights flashing as we pull out onto the road. I grip the bar overhead, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
This is what I came back for.
Not the danger exactly, but the clarity. The way everything narrows down to what matters when someone else’s life is on the line. The way doubt and memory and regret all shut up for a few blessed minutes.
Except they don’t.
Because all I can see, layered over the rushing street, is Abby’s face from earlier that morning. The way she stood by the window table, hands wrapped around a coffee pot she didn’t need to be holding.
