I pull off my coat without saying anything. It’s still hot from the fire, laced with smoke and damp around the collar, but I settle it over her anyway, tucking it in around her shoulders until the fabric anchors her.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. Her fingers move, just slightly, curling around the cuff as if her body remembers something her mind hasn’t caught up with yet.
“You’re alright now,” I say. “You’re safe.”
She blinks once, her breath catching. The rest of her stays frozen, but her mouth parts like she might try to argue.
Instead, her eyes slide to mine, too bright and too raw, and she exhales slowly. It’s uneven, like she’s been holding it since the moment she woke up choking on smoke and fear.
“That was a scary thing to wake up to,” she whispers, hoarse from the smoke.
“I know,” I say, crouching in front of her. “But you got yourself out. That’s what matters the most.”
She doesn’t nod, but her grip on the blanket shifts slightly.
I glance over at Mason, who’s watching us both. He looks ready to come back over, but I give him a look, and he backs off. I’ve got this.
I slide my arm under her knees and another behind her back before she has a chance to protest. Her body’s light in my arms, too light, but she doesn’t resist the movement. She just sinks into the warmth of the coat and lets her head rest against my collar.
It’s not the first time I’ve carried her. But this time, there’s no crowd, no flashing lights, no performance. Just the quiet of the night. Just the crickets and the stale smell of smoke.
And the way she leans into me, like she’s too tired to fight it anymore. Like she doesn’t care if she dies.
It kills a part of me inside.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do now,” she murmurs softly. “I knew Honeysuckle Grove wasn’t going to want me back… but I didn’t know it’d bethisbad.”
My chest constricts.
I want to help her. I need to help her.
But what can I do?
CHAPTER 15
Lo
I’m still shaking.
Even with the blanket slung around my shoulders, even with Beck’s scent wrapped around me, even with him holding me in his arms, an immovable wall of calm, I can’t stop my fingers from twitching.
I keep curling them into fists, trying to calm myself down, but all I feel is soot and sweat and the ghost of smoke in my throat.
The fire’s out. That’s what they said. Minimal damage. Probably the word they used.
But it doesn’t feel minimal.
It feels personal.
The house is still there, still standing. But the damage is certainly done.
Black streaks up the side wall, shattered glass on the porch, the screen door half-melted and hanging off its hinges as if it gave up halfway through the escape. A few of the firefighters are rolling up the hoses. Someone’s laughing from the neighbor’s yard.
Probably at me.
It’s all wrong. Too normal, like this didn’t just… happen.
Like I didn’t just wake up choking in a room full of smoke, heart pounding so loud I thought it was the fire itself battering against the closed door of my bedroom.
