“Hey,” he says, holding the egg he was about to crack. “I was getting breakfast started. I figured after our accidental sleepover, the least I could do was?—”
“Get away from the stove.” My voice is flat, distant, as if coming from somewhere outside my body.
Josh’s smile falters, confusion clouding his eyes. He sets down the egg and turns off the burner, raising his hands like he’s dealing with a feral animal. Which, to be fair, I probably resemble right now.
“What is happening?” he asks, genuine concern replacing his earlier cheerfulness. “Did I… do something wrong?”
I don’t know how to answer him. The last time anyone made me breakfast in this house, he died before I could thank him for it. I want to explain this to Josh, but how do I put into words the tsunami of emotions crashing through me? How do I tell him that he’s ripped open a wound I thought had scarred over?
“Breakfast was Daniel’s thing,” I finally say, the words coming out in a strained whisper. “I need you to leave.”
Understanding sinks in, darkening his eyes. A flash of what might be pain or pity follows. He takes a cautious step toward me, but stops when I tense.
“Okay, I’ll go.” He hesitates, studying my face. “Just for breakfast, or the rest too?”
“What rest?” I blink at him, confused.
“The pier.” He gestures toward the window to the outside world. “Did I fuck that up too?”
The question throws me. I’ve just kicked him out of my kitchen, yet he’s still worried about our plans for later? I want to scream at him for being so nice, or maybe at myself, for being so broken that even a breakfast omelet feels like a betrayal. My breathing shallows out, my chest tightening in the familiar precursor to hyperventilation.
“You fucked up?” I gasp out, pressing a hand to my sternum, rubbing the tattoo over my heart. “Josh, I’m acting unhinged and you still want to spend the day with me?”
He takes another step closer, his voice calm and soothing. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay to be upset. Be as sad, heartbroken, and unhinged as you like around me.” His eyes hold mine, steady and unwavering. “If you want to scream, scream. If you want to break things, just tell me to hand you the bat, remember? I’ve got you.”
His understanding does something to me that anger never could. It cracks the shell I’ve built around my grief, letting everything I’ve been holding back rush out. A sob rips from my throat, followed by another, until I’m full-on crying—huge, ugly tears that I can’t control.
“I’m sorry,” I manage between gasps, my arms wrapped around myself as if I might physically fall apart. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Josh says, moving closer but still giving me space.
He opens his arms, offering himself up for a hug but letting me make the choice. I stare at him through blurry eyes, wavering on the edge of a precipice I can’t see the bottom of. He’s on the other side, extending me a hand to keep me from falling. Something inside me gives way. One of my many walls crumbles, letting me re-learn it’s okay not to be strong all the time. Not to shoulder everything alone.
I step into his embrace.
The moment his arms wrap around me, I come undone. I cry like I haven’t cried since the day I finally cleaned the house of Daniel’s stuff, purging my closets but not my heart. Josh holds me through it, one hand smoothing my hair, the other firm behind my back, anchoring me.
He doesn’t shush me or tell me it will be okay. Josh rocks me, his chin resting on top of my head, letting me cry until I’ve emptied myself out. His shirt is soaked with my tears, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Finally, the storm passes, leaving me drained and lighter at the same time. I pull back to look up at him, embarrassed by my meltdown, but also strangely relieved.
“This is way more than you signed up for,” I say, my voice raw from crying.
Josh tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch feather-light. “This is exactly what I signed up for,” he says simply. “Real friends share the ugly same as the beautiful.”
What did I do to deserve someone so kind walking into my life and wanting to stick around? Josh is still a firefighter. Still the embodiment of everything I’m terrified of. But in this moment, he’s also a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.
“Such a hero complex, Lieutenant,” I say, patting his shoulder as I step out of his arms. The loss of his warmth is immediate, but I need to regain some semblance of composure.
He grins and, for once, I let myself enjoy how beautiful his face is without feeling guilty. “Better than a martyr complex, Nurse Finnigan.”
I shove him playfully in response. “You suck.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, not wanting to know how puffy my face must be. “If you’re still up for it, I need to take five, but we can meet at your truck in an hour to go to Santa Monica.”
Josh reaches for my arm and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’m not scared off that easily, Lily. Come find me when you’re ready.”
Ready for the pier or for something else? I don’t ask. I watch him leave. Hear him put his shoes back on and the front door close behind him.
The apartment feels emptier than usual in his absence, the silence pressing in from all sides.
