“Like I was back there.”
The house goes still.
He runs both hands through his hair, shoulders tight like he’s carrying weight again.
“I hate that it still does that,” he says quietly. “Nine years later and it still feels like I’m breathing smoke.”
I step in front of him.
“There’s not a timeline for trauma,” I say softly.
His eyes flash.
“I don’t get to fall apart either.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a father. Because I’m a firefighter. Because if I lose control, people get hurt.”
“You’re not losing control,” I say.
“You didn’t see me tonight.”
“Then show me.” The words hang there.
He looks at me like I’ve asked him to rip his own chest open.
“You want to see what that looks like?” he asks, voice low.
“Yes.”
His breath comes heavier now. “I walked into that house and for half a second I couldn’t move,” he says. “Everything in me froze.” He steps closer. “And I thought—if I hesitate again, someone dies.”
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“I did.”
“You kept going.”
He looks at me like I’m stubborn and impossible.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he asks quietly, “to live in constant fear that you’re one bad second away from losing everything again?”
I swallow.
“I’m starting to.”
His gaze sharpens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I care about you.”
The truth is raw. He goes still. “You wouldn’t if you knew what’s best for you.”
“Too late.”
His hand comes up, grips my waist. Not rough.
But firm.
