Liam:
Aren't you?
I bit my lip, debating how honest to be. Screw it.
Me:
Maybe. When I'm not busy being a productive member of society. Besides, I have kitchen drawers to organize.
Liam:
Kitchen drawers at 11 p.m.? Now who's breaking protocol?
I laughed out loud at that, settling more comfortably onto the stool.
Me:
Insomnia makes for excellent productivity. Plus, my place is still a disaster zone.
There was a longer pause before his next message appeared.
Liam:
Any trouble sleeping since the fire?
This question hit differently than the playful banter, striking something raw and vulnerable I hadn't planned on sharing. Something about the late hour and the distance between us made honesty easier.
Me:
Yeah. I keep dreaming about smoke and waking up thinking I can't breathe.
I hit send, hoping I hadn't killed the mood.
Liam:
That's normal. Trauma response. Have you talked to anyone about it?
Me:
Only you, and now I'm feeling ridiculous about it.
Liam:
Don't. I still dream about fires, too. The bad ones stay with you.
I stared at his text, reading between the lines. There was history there, something deeper than the general stress of the job. I remembered how his crew had talked about him, the respect in their voices when they mentioned the lives he'd saved, including theirs.
Me:
Is that why you keep people at a distance? Are you afraid of what might stay with you?
The typing dots appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared.
Liam:
That obvious, huh?
Me:
