“You’re up,” he says.
“You smell like smoke.”
“Hazard of the job.”
His voice is flat.
He drops his duffel bag near the stairs. Doesn’t move toward me.
Doesn’t touch me.
Something’s wrong.
I stand.
“How bad?”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “Contained.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His gaze snaps to mine. A beat of silence stretches tight between us.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“Don’t what?”
“Dig.”
I step closer anyway. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
His jaw flexes. “You weren’t there, Tessa.”
“No,” I say evenly. “But I’m here now.”
The air changes. He exhales hard and turns away, pacing once across the living room.
“It was the same layout,” he mutters.
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Two-story. Kitchen fire started near the back door. Same stupid open staircase.” His voice roughens. “I walked in and it was like my body remembered before my brain did.”
I move closer, slower this time. “What happened?”
He stops pacing. “Kid’s bedroom was upstairs. Father tried to go back in.” His eyes meet mine. “I held him back.” The words land heavy. “He was screaming,” Sawyer says. “Screaming like I was the villain.”
“You saved him.”
“I saved him,” he repeats hollowly. “His kid made it out. We got her down the ladder. But when I heard him yelling… it felt like?—”
He cuts himself off.
“Like what?”
