I don't say anything. I can't say anything. My throat is too tight. My chest is too full. My entire body is vibrating with emotions I don't have words for.
I walk toward him, my legs unsteady, my entire being trembling, and when I reach him, I'm not sure if I'm going to hit him or hug him or do both simultaneously.
I hug him.
My arms wrap around his neck, around the hard edges of his firefighter gear, and I'm pressing my face against the soot-covered fabric of his shirt. He smells like smoke and ash and something burning and underneath it all, beneath all the chaos and danger, he smells like Cassian. Like home. Like safety.
And I'm breathing him in, and my eyes are burning, and my throat is tight, and my entire body is shaking because he's alive. He's actually alive. He came out of that house, and he's standing here with me, and he's breathing, and his heart is beating, and he didn't leave me behind.
"You scared me," I whisper against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat there. Fast but steady. Racing but not weak. The heartbeat of someone who just came through something terrible and is grateful to still be on the other side of it.
His hands come up and they're cradling my back, holding me against him like I might disappear if he lets go. "I'm okay," he says, his voice low and rough. His voice sounds like he's just been screaming. "I'm right here. I'm okay."
But he wasn't okay. He was in a burning building. He was in danger. He was doing the thing he does, running toward the danger while everyone else runs away, and I was out here losing my mind.
"You could have died," I say, and now the tears are coming. Actually coming. Hot and fast and uncontrollable, running down my cheeks and mixing with the soot on his gear. I'm pressing my face against his chest, and I'm crying like I'm trying to releasesomething that's been building up inside me for weeks. "You could have been in there, and something could have gone wrong, and I would have had to stand out here and wait and not know if you were coming back out, and you could have died."
Cassian pulls back and throws off his gloves then he looks at me, and his hands come up to cup my face. His gloved palms are gentle despite the heavy gear he's wearing. His thumbs trace my cheekbones, wiping away tears and smearing soot. His scent is shifting. Darkening. The smoke and leather becoming something sharper, something more intense. The scent of an alpha who just realized that someone matters enough to scare him. Someone matters so much that losing her would break something in him that couldn't be repaired.
"I'm not dead," he says quietly. His gray eyes are focused entirely on me, like I'm the only thing in the world that exists right now. Like the fire trucks and the smoke and his crew and the neighbors watching from their yards don't exist anymore. Like there's only me and him and this moment. "I'm right here. I'm okay. You're okay."
"You're covered in soot," I say, and the words are stupid and irrelevant and completely what my brain decides to focus on when everything else feels too overwhelming.
"I know," he says, and there's almost a smile there. Like he knows I'm saying random things because I'm falling apart. Like he understands that I need to say something that doesn't matter because saying something that does matter would break me completely.
"And I'm getting soot all over myself because I'm hugging you," I continue, because my mouth is apparently not receiving signals from my brain right now.
"I don't care," he says, and he means it. I can hear it in his voice. He doesn't care that I'm getting dirty. He doesn't care that we're standing in the middle of Maple Street with an audience.He doesn't care about anything except that I'm here and I'm touching him and he can feel that I'm real.
His forehead is inches from mine. His hands are still on my face, and his scent is wrapping around me like smoke. Dark and intense and something that makes my omega brain go quiet. This is an alpha who just came through danger, but he's looking at me like I matter more than the danger he just faced. Like I matter more than anything.
"You scared me so much," I whisper, and I'm still crying. Still shaking. Still completely undone and exposed and vulnerable in a way that should terrify me but doesn't. Not right now. Right now, I just need him to know how much I felt his absence. How much his danger affected me. How much he's come to mean.
"I know," he says again, and his voice is so soft and so full of something that my heart can't handle it. "I know, sweetheart."
And then he's kissing me.
It tastes like smoke and ash and relief and something fierce and desperate that suggests he's just as affected by all of this as I am. His hands frame my face, holding me in place like I might run away if he doesn't keep me close. His mouth moves against mine with an intensity that steals my breath. Which is ironic given that he literally just came out of a burning building and probably shouldn't be exerting himself.
I respond like I can somehow pull him deeper into safety. Like I can anchor him here through sheer force of will. My fingers clutch at his turnout coat, finding purchase in the rough fabric, holding on like he might disappear if I let go.
His tongue sweeps against my bottom lip, and I open for him immediately. The contact shifts from desperate to claiming. One of his hands slides from my face to the back of my neck, angling my head so he can deepen things. His other hand drops to my waist, pulling me flush against him despite the bulky gear creating a barrier between us.
I can feel his heart pounding through all those layers. Beating hard and fast and alive. So incredibly alive.
My hands move up to his face, cupping his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble against my palms. He tastes like danger survived. Like promises made and kept. Like coming home after thinking you never would.
His fingers thread through my hair, loosening whatever is left of my professional bun. I don't care. I press closer, trying to eliminate every inch of space between us. Trying to convince myself he's real and solid and not going to vanish back into the smoke and flames.
A sound escapes me. Something between a whimper and a sob. Relief and fear and overwhelming emotion all tangled together in a way I can't separate.
Cassian responds by gentling his approach. His mouth still moving against mine but slower now. Softer. Like he's trying to comfort me even though he's the one who just walked out of a burning building. His thumb strokes along my jawline in small, soothing circles.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His hands are still on my face, smudging ash across my skin. His gray eyes are dark and intense and completely focused on me like I'm the most important thing he's ever seen.
"I wasn't going to die," he says softly. His voice is still rough from the smoke, but it's steady. Certain. "Not when I've got something worth living for."
Behind us, Jett is pretending to look at something very interesting happening by the fire trucks. The captain of Cassian's crew is also suddenly very focused on the radio. The neighbors watching from their yards are definitely getting an eyeful of what is clearly a very personal moment happening in the middle of Maple Street in front of multiple emergency vehicles and professional firefighters.
