I smooth my hands down my borrowed WFFD sweatshirt—Austin's, soft, worn fabric. My clothes from yesterday still smell like smoke, a reminder of everything that's changed in the span of twenty-four hours. My studio destroyed, my relationship with Austin transformed, and now the conversation with Paul that can't be avoided any longer.
The sound of a truck pulling into the station parking lot catches my attention. Through the window, I see Paul's familiar pickup coming to a stop. My heart rate kicks up a notch, but I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
This conversation has been years in the making—not just about Austin, but about everything: Paul's overprotection, my independence, the balance we've never quite found since our parents died.
The station door opens, and Paul steps inside. He stops when he sees me sitting at the kitchen table, his expression shifting from surprise to wariness. He's in his uniform already, shoulderssquared, jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line I've known all my life.
"Mich," he says, voice neutral. "Didn't expect to see you here this early."
"We need to talk," I reply, keeping my own voice even. "About yesterday. About everything."
He nods once, dropping his duffel bag by the door before crossing to the coffee maker. His movements are deliberate, almost mechanical, as he goes through the motions of brewing a fresh pot. I recognize the stalling tactic, Paul's always needed to occupy his hands during difficult conversations.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, back still to me. "After the smoke inhalation."
"I'm fine," I tell him. "They checked me out again this morning. No lasting damage."
"Good." He turns, leaning against the counter while the coffee brews. "That's good."
Silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken words. I stand, moving to the counter beside him, close enough that he can't avoid looking at me but not so close that he feels cornered.
"Paul," I begin, meeting his gaze steadily. "What you saw yesterday with Austin and me—"
"You don't owe me an explanation," he cuts in, but his tone belies his words.
"Maybe not," I acknowledge. "But I'd like to give you one anyway."
The coffee maker gurgles its final sputter, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of fresh brew. Paul pours himself a cup, his movements precise and controlled. He doesn't offer me one.
"I'm not a child, Paul," I say quietly. "I haven't been for a long time, though you still treat me like one."
"I'm trying to protect you," he responds, an edge creeping into his voice.
"I know," I say, softening my tone. "And I love you for it. But there's a difference between protection and control."
He flinches slightly at the word "control," his fingers tightening around his mug. "Is that what you think? That I'm controlling you?"
"Sometimes," I admit, the honesty both painful and liberating. "Not intentionally. But you've had a say in every major decision I've made since Mom and Dad died. Where I lived, who I dated, even where I set up my studio."
"Because I care about you," Paul says, frustration evident in his voice. "Because I know how hard it can be out there."
"I know you care," I say, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. "And I'm grateful for that. But Paul, I need to make my own choices. Even if they're sometimes the wrong ones."
His jaw works, emotions flitting across his face too quickly to track. "And Austin is your choice?" he finally asks, the words coming out stiff.
"Yes," I say simply. "He is."
Paul sets his mug down with a sharp click. "He works for me, Michelle. He's my probie. There are boundaries—"
"No," I interrupt, my voice firm. "He's a grown man and I'm a grown woman. The only boundary that matters is the one you're trying to put between us."
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache with sudden affection. Despite everything, he's still my brother, still the person who held me together when our world fell apart.
"I almost lost you yesterday," he says quietly, vulnerability breaking through his professional exterior. "When I heard the call come in, when I knew you were in that fire... I've never been so scared in my life."
"I know," I say, my own voice softening. "But Austin was the one who found me. Who got me out. Who made sure I was safe."
"That's his job," Paul counters, but the argument sounds hollow even to him.
