I care about Cassian. Deeply. Completely. The kind of caring that makes you vulnerable. The kind of caring that can destroy you if something goes wrong.
A firefighter comes out of the house, their gear covered in soot, their breathing heavy even through the mask. My entire body goes rigid. Is it Cassian? I can't tell. The gear is bulky and anonymous and terrifying. The uncertainty is worse than knowing bad news would be.
It's not Cassian.
"All clear on the first floor," the firefighter calls out to one of the captains. "Kitchen's contained. No other residents on scene."
First floor is clear. That's good. That means the fire is managed. That means one obstacle down.
"What about upstairs?" the captain asks.
"Going in now."
Upstairs. Of course there's an upstairs. Because why wouldn't a burning house have more floors? Why wouldn't Cassian have to go deeper into the danger?
My fingernails are digging into my palms. I'm making fists so tight my hands are shaking. The physical pain is something to focus on. The pain is real and immediate and not about Cassian walking further into a building that's trying to kill him.
Jett notices because Jett notices everything. He takes one of my hands and uncurls my fingers gently, then holds my palm flat against his chest so I can feel his heartbeat. It's there, strong and steady telling me not to worry.
"Breathe," he says quietly. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
I try. It's hard when your lungs feel like they're made of concrete and your heart is beating so fast it feels like it might punch its way out of your rib cage and just escape this moment entirely.
More firefighters come out of the house. I hold my breath each time, trying to identify the shape, the height, the way they move. Trying to find Cassian in the haze of smoke and gear and uncertainty.
Still not Cassian.
"Second floor is clear," another firefighter calls out. "Basement sweep in progress."
Basement. Of course there's a basement. Because why would a burning house limit itself to just one or two floors? Because Cassian's job isn't hard enough?
My spiraling is getting worse. My scent is getting sharper. Wildflower and fear mixing with strawberry until I smell like panic made tangible. The smell of an omega in distress. The smell of someone whose alpha is in danger and she can't do anything to help.
That's when it hits me. That's when I realize what I'm feeling.
If he doesn't come out of that house, then I don't come out of this intact.
"He's fine," Jett says again, and there's something in his voice that suggests he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince me. But his hand is still on mine. His heartbeat is still steady against my palm. He's here. I'm here. We're waiting together.
Then I see him.
Cassian emerges from the smoke like he's walking out of hell itself and deciding he's not particularly impressed by the accommodations. His gear is covered in soot. His helmet is still firmly on his head. His movements are steady and controlled.He's carrying something. A small cat carrier. The animal inside is meowing, frightened but alive.
He's fine. He's completely fine. He's alive, and he's walking out, and he's carrying a cat like this is just another Tuesday.
And then my legs give out.
Not literally. I'm still standing. All the tension I've been holding, all the fear, all the worst-case scenarios playing out on repeat in my brain. It releases in a rush that feels like drowning in reverse. Like I've been underwater and I'm suddenly breaking the surface and remembering how to breathe.
My knees feel weak. My vision gets a little blurry at the edges. My entire body is shaking with the release of adrenaline that suddenly has nowhere to go. It's like my body doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that he's safe. The information doesn't compute. My nervous system has been in crisis mode for so long that peace feels like a foreign concept.
Cassian sees me.
His eyes, those cold gray eyes that I've learned to read over the past few weeks, go soft immediately. Not gentle. Soft. Like ice that's been warmed by the sun. Like something hard and protective is melting into something vulnerable. He hands off the cat carrier to one of the other firefighters without taking his gaze off me, and then he's walking toward us. Toward me. Moving with purpose and intention.
I watch him approach and something in my chest cracks open. Actually cracks. I can feel it happening. The walls I've been building around my heart since he first showed up at Savannah's place are crumbling like they were never real in the first place.
"Sharon," he says, and my name on his lips sounds like an apology and a promise and a question all at once. Like he's sorry for scaring me. Like he's promising he's okay. Like he's asking if I am.
