We move fast.Down the hall.Through the broken frame of my front door.And then, finally, outside.Cold night air slams into my lungs like a slap, shocking and painful and glorious.I gasp greedily, coughing so hard more tears spill down my cheeks.He doesn’t put me down right away.He kneels with me still in his arms, keeping me tucked to him like I’m the most important thing on the street.
Lights flash everywhere, red, white, and blue, spinning, painting the world in chaotic color.Neighbors stand behind yellow tape in robes and slippers, hands over their mouths.My house glows, roof alive with orange tongues that claw at the sky while hoses arc water across it in glittering streams.
A paramedic appears at my side in a blur of latex gloves and competent chatter, but I can’t stop looking at the man holding me.
He finally peels off his mask and helmet.
And the world tips a little.
He’s young.Younger than I expect.Early twenties maybe.He’s tall, his dark skin glistening with sweat, and jaw sharp enough to cut glass.His eyes, holy shit, are warm brown with flecks of gold that catch the rotating lights.
He looks down at me with a mixture of absolute focus and ...something else.Something that sees me.“You’re okay,” he says gently, crowding out the chaos around us with just his voice.“You’re safe.I’ve got you.”
No one has ever said it like that to me.Not like a promise.Not like a vow.But instead, like it’s a simple immutable fact.
The paramedic touches my shoulder.“Ma’am, can you tell me your name?”
“Olivia,” I rasp without looking away from him.
He smiles a little at that, like he’s cataloging it, tucking it away somewhere private.
“Olivia,” the medic repeats, “I need to check your oxygen levels and make sure your airway isn’t compromised.Are you hurt anywhere?”
Am I?I blink, doing a mental scan.Everything aches in a distant, delayed way, like my body hasn’t finished filling in the pain report yet.My chest burns.My throat feels like I’ve been trying to give a cactus a blowjob.My skin is hot, but I don’t think I’m badly burned.
“My pride,” I croak.
The firefighter snorts softly.The sound is brief, almost strangled, like he doesn’t think he’s allowed to laugh right now and did it anyway.
“Let them check you,” he murmurs.“I’m not going far.”
I should not be disappointed when he shifts me into the paramedic’s care.
But my fingers tighten on his jacket anyway.
“Will ...will you stay?”The words slip out before my brain approves them.Great.Smoke inhalation apparently turns me into a clingy octopus.
He looks down at my hand on him, then back up at my face.And the soft expression he wears does something dangerously reckless to my heart.“As long as you need,” he says simply.
Time blurs, slowing down and speeding up at the same time.
Someone presses an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth, blessed coolness flowing into my lungs.My vision swims in and out, thoughts flickering like a bad film reel.I answer questions automatically.
Yes, I’m divorced.
Yes, I live alone.
No, I don’t have any pets.
No, I don’t know how the fire started.Not this time anyway.
This time.The phrase slides icy fingers down my spine.Because last time wasn’t an accident.
Last time was a man I married saying, “You’re nothing without me,” and lighting a match to prove it.
“Hey.”The firefighter crouches back into my line of sight like he can feel me drifting.We’re close enough now that I can see the faint scar at his jaw, the little crease between his brows that deepens when he’s worried.“Olivia.Look at me.”
I do.Because apparently I’d follow that voice into fire or out of it.
