I put my phone down and pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.
I needed to distance myself from him, pull back the texts, decline the visits, rebuild the walls before he could break them down any further. I'd been surviving on my own for years. I didn't need a famous firefighter playing savior with my life.
Needing people only led to disappointment. I'd learned that lesson early and well.
I'd just forgotten it for a minute. That was all it took.
Saturday evening, Shane showed up with grocery bags.
"You mentioned you hadn't had time to shop." He was already moving past me into the kitchen, setting bags on the counter.
"Shane, you can't just?—"
"Already did." He was unpacking. Vegetables. Chicken. Pasta. "I'm making stir fry. Unless you hate stir fry, in which case I'm making something else."
The Google images flashed through my mind. Shane on a red carpet. Shane, with his arm around a model. Shane in a world of glitter and flashbulbs that had nothing to do with this cramped apartment with its dripping faucet—fixed now, because of him—and its thirdhand furniture and its windows that didn't quite seal against the winter drafts.
What are you doing here?Don't you have galas to attend? Models to date? A real life to get back to?
I should have argued. I should have told him to leave because I couldn't let him keep doing things for me without knowing what he wanted in return.
Instead, I heard myself say, "I don't hate stir fry."
"Good. Sit down. Grade papers. I've got this."
I sat down at the kitchen table, where Zoe was already doing homework. Picked up my red pen and started grading Marcus's essay about why dogs were better than cats.
Shane moved through my kitchen like he belonged there. He found the cutting board without asking and located the good knife in the drawer. He turned on the stove and adjusted the flame like he’d done it his whole life.
When Zoe finished her homework, she drifted over to watch Shane cook.
"Can I help?"
"Sure. You're on vegetable duty." He handed her a pepper and a knife. "Think you can handle it?"
“I’m not a baby,” she said flatly.
"Just making sure you know not to cut toward yourself."
Zoe rolled her eyes but positioned the pepper correctly. I watched Shane watch her patiently. He stepped in only when she struggled with the onion.
"You're crying," Zoe said, staring at him.
Shane wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, laughing. "Onions. They get me every time."
"Aren't you supposed to be tough? You run into burning buildings."
"Fire, I can handle. Onions are my kryptonite." He sniffed dramatically. "Don't tell the guys at the station. They'll never let me live it down."
Zoe grinned. Actually grinned. "Your secret's safe with me."
"Appreciate it." He handed her a paper towel. "Pro tip: put them in the freezer for ten minutes before cutting. My mom taught me that."
"Does it work?"
"Usually. When I remember." He adjusted the flame under the pan. "She was a great cook. You remind me of her,” he said, almost absently.
Zoe's grin faded into something more cautious. "How?"
