She steps closer to inspect the damage, and I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. Of how she smells faintly like warm vanilla and cold air. Of how the morning light catches on her lashes.
“I can call insurance,” she offers quickly. “Or—well—this probably isn’t worth it, but I can?—”
“It’s fine,” I say. “No harm done.”
Her shoulders drop in relief. “Thank you. Really. I just—first day nerves.”
“First day of what?”
She glances up at me again, then seems to remember she’s supposed to be flustered. “New town. New job. New routine. I was rehearsing what I was going to say when I got there.”
“Important words?”
She snorts. “Very. Mostly ‘hi’ and ‘please don’t cry.’”
That pulls a low sound from my chest before I can stop it. A laugh. Rusty from disuse.
Her eyes flicker to my mouth. There’s a beat. A moment too long.
Then she clears her throat. “I’m Tessa.”
“Sawyer.”
She glances at my coat. “Firefighter?”
“Yes.”
“Figures,” she says, like that confirms something she already suspected.
“Why’s that?”
She gestures vaguely at me. “You have that look. Hero energy. Like nothing rattles you.”
I think about the way my hands still shake sometimes when I wake up from dreams I don’t remember having. About the way silence presses too hard on my chest at night.
“Something like that,” I say.
A horn blares behind us. The light’s gone green.
Tessa startles, then laughs at herself. “I should get out of your way before I cause an actual accident.”
She reaches into her coat pocket, pulls out a card, and hesitates. “Just in case?”
I take it. Our fingers brush.
Static jumps between us. Sharp. Unexpected.
Her breath stutters. Mine does too.
“Drive safe,” she says, voice softer now.
“You too.”
She nods, then turns back toward her car. Halfway there, she glances over her shoulder. “Hey, Sawyer?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry again.”
