Tears shine in her eyes, but she crosses the space between us and cups my face, forcing me to look at her. Her palms are warm against my jaw, soft skin over rigid muscle. Her hands tremble slightly, and I feel the tremor echo through me. Wild grief stares back at me from her eyes, but underneath it is something fiercer. Something that refuses to let me run.
"Listen to me." Her voice shakes but stays steady. "You didn't kill Marcus. A ceiling collapsed. Fires don't follow rules or fairness. You made the best call you could with what you knew."
"It wasn't good enough."
"It washuman." She presses closer until our bodies touch, until I can feel that she's real and here and not leaving. "You're not superhuman, Brooks. You're a man who saves people when he can. Sometimes that's enough. Sometimes it isn't. But that doesn't mean you get to run from everyone important to you because you're terrified of failing them."
"I can't lose you." The words tear out of me, desperate and raw enough to make my chest ache. "I can't survive it. Not again. Not with you at stake."
"Then don't leave me." She slides her hands into my hair, gripping tightly, pulling me down until our foreheads touch. Her breath comes fast and uneven against my lips. "Stay. Fight. Let me carry this with you instead of doing it alone. That's what lovemeans. It’s not your job to decide for both of us that it's too hard."
I make a sound that's half sob, half exhale, and my arms circle her curves. I pull her against my chest so hard the air rushes from her lungs, and I'm shaking. My heart pounds wild and uneven, and she wraps her arms around my waist and holds on. Lets me take what I need. Lets me feel that she's solid and real and not going anywhere.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into her hair. "I'm so sorry. I thought—I was trying to—"
"I know." She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, and I see the anger still simmering underneath her forgiveness. "But you can’t do it again. Next time you're scared, you talk to me. You let me in. You don't run. Do you understand?"
I search her face for a long moment. Whatever I find there makes the tension drain from my shoulders. "I understand."
"Good."
She kisses me then, hard and claiming, and I taste salt and determination on her lips. When we break apart, we're both gasping. She kisses me again, softer this time, and her thumb traces my jawline. The touch steadies something in me. Reminds me I planned for this moment.
"I have something for you," I say.
She blinks, confused by the shift. I take her hand and lead her to the bedroom, flipping on the lamp beside the bed. The warm light fills the space, chasing away some of the darkness I've been drowning in. I reach for the nightstand drawer and pull out the small wooden box I finished carving the other day.
Hand-carved. Simple. Beautiful in its plainness. The wood is smooth from hours of sanding until every edge was perfect.
I open it and turn it so she can see the top. Her initial, a single E, is carved into the wood in careful strokes. Hours of work distilled into something permanent.
"I made this for you," I say. "I wanted you to have something that says you're mine and I'm yours and this is real."
Her eyes brighten, shining with unshed tears. She takes the box from me, running her fingers over the carved initial. The wood is warm under her touch, and I watch her trace each line. She understands. I see the exact moment she realizes what this means. What I'm offering her.
"It's beautiful," she whispers.
"You're beautiful." I cup her face, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. "And you're mine. And I'm never running from that again."
She sets the box on the nightstand and looks at me. Her eyes are dark with need and fierce affection tangled together, and my control hangs by a thread.
"I need you," I say, and my voice drops to gravel. "Need to feel you. Need to prove to myself that you're real and alive."
"I'm here." She cups my face, anchoring me. "I'm real. I'm yours."
Those words shatter the last thread of my control.
My mouth crashes into hers, hungry and demanding. My hands are everywhere: her soft waist, her hair, sliding down to grip her wide hips hard enough to leave marks. I walk her backward until her back hits the wall, and I press my body against hers. Solid. Warm. Every inch of me against her softness.
My knee slides between her thighs, spreading them, and she gasps into my mouth. The sound drives me wild. My hand grips her ass while the other cups the back of her neck, controlling the angle of the kiss. Every nerve ending screams for her.
"I need to be inside you," I say against her lips. Not asking. Stating.
"I need that, too."
I lift her easily, and her legs wrap around my waist. I carry her to the bed and lay her down on sheets that smell like sleep andmy aftershave. I stand at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her. She's flushed, her hair wild against my pillow, her eyes dark with want.
"You're sure?" I have to ask, even though I'm one touch away from breaking.
