I look at her then. Really look at her.
Her hair’s loose, falling over one shoulder. No makeup. Just warm skin and soft eyes and that stubborn little lift of her chin when she challenges me.
“I should have,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because I like it on you.”
The porch goes still.
She studies me like she’s measuring whether I’m about to retreat again.
I don’t.
“Lacee’s asleep,” she says softly.
“Good.”
“She asked if I’d braid her hair tomorrow.”
“She trusts you.”
Tessa nods once. “I trust her too.”
I swallow. The word trust does something inside my chest that feels fragile.
“She hasn’t laughed like that in a while,” I say.
“She’s a ten-year-old girl,” Tessa replies gently. “She’s allowed to laugh.”
“She didn’t for too long,” I say.
Not after I lost everything. Lacee grew up in a very sad house for a long time.
She steps closer, resting her hip against the railing. Close enough that her shoulder brushes mine.
“You don’t have to keep bracing all the time,” she says.
I exhale slowly. “That’s not how it works.”
“How does it work?”
“You survive.”
“That’s not the same as living.”
Her voice isn’t accusing. Just steady.
I look out over the dark tree line. “Nine years ago, I walked into a house fire thinking it was another call. Another structure. Another night. I walked out with everyone except her. She died during her friend’s wedding shower–a beam collapsed and trapped her. Lacee was at home with a babysitter. We…we managed to save eight of Lauren’s closest friends, but Lauren…it was too late.”
The words sit heavy in the air. Tessa doesn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t know she was inside until—” My throat tightens. “Until I saw her car.”
Tessa’s hand finds mine.
“I couldn’t get to her,” I say quietly. “I’ve been in worse fires. I’ve taken bigger risks. But that night… I hesitated. For half a second. And half a second was too long. The beam fell and if I’d only been a second sooner–”
