His eyes flash. “Low blow.”
“Truth hurts,” I say. “And for the record, this wasn’t even about you.”
“That’s bullshit,” he says flatly.
“Is it?” I challenge. “Because last I checked, Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue is more than one man.”
“You heard my story and decided to turn it into an event.”
“I heard your story,” I snap, “and decided it deserved light instead of silence.”
His hands clench at his sides. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I’m not deciding for you,” I say, forcing my voice to steady. “I’m inviting you.”
“To what?” he bites out. “Relive it? Smile for donors? Stand around while people point at the scars you pretend not to see?”
I close the distance between us. “I see them. And I don’t look away.”
His breath hitches. Just once. Barely there.
“Firefly,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “you don’t understand what you’re poking.”
“Oh, I do,” I say softly. “I understand exactly. You’re angry because you care.”
“That’s not?—”
“You care,” I repeat. “And it terrifies you.”
He laughs again, but it’s brittle. “You think you know me that well?”
“I know you don’t lash out unless something matters,” I say. “And this matters. I matter.”
The words hang between us, bold and naked.
He stares at me like I’ve just knocked the air out of him. “You don’t get to say that.”
“I do,” I say. “Because you let me see you.”
“I didn’t let you?—”
“You did,” I interrupt. “You cooked with me. You talked. You painted. You stayed.”
His jaw works. “That was a mistake.”
The words sting, sharp and unexpected.
I swallow. Then I smile, slow and a little sad. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to feel safe, go ahead.”
He stiffens. “I don’t need?—”
“Boone,” I say gently, “you don’t get to decide what heals people. Not me. Not you. Not this town.”
“I didn’t ask to be healed.”
“No,” I agree. “You asked to be left alone.”
His gaze drops, just for a second. Enough.
