“Yes,” I say.
“About me?”
“About everything,” I correct. “They have the maturity of twelve-year-olds.”
Sadie’s lips twitch. “That hasn’t changed.”
I don’t answer, because too much hasn’t changed.
She turns back to her task, but her voice drifts over her shoulder, softer now. Less weapon, more… something else.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” she says.
My chest tightens. “You didn’t ask.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask who’s working at the firehouse.”
“You should’ve,” I say anyway, sharp as a blade, because anger is easier than whatever else swells in my throat. “You show up after years and act like it’s just… normal.”
Sadie goes still. The pen pauses mid-air.
Then she turns, slow.
Her eyes are bright, but not teary. Just alive with something fierce.
“I didn’t act like it was normal,” she says, voice quiet and dangerous. “I walked in here with my heart in my throat and you know it.”
My pulse hits hard.
The bay feels too big and too small at once. My guys are close enough to hear, far enough to pretend they can’t. The walls are lined with gear and history and the life we all live when we’re not pretending.
I take one step toward her. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that she feels the heat.
“This isn’t about your heart,” I say, low.
Sadie’s chin lifts. “What’s it about then?”
I let my gaze drag over her face, slow and deliberate, because I’m done pretending she doesn’t affect me. “It’s about control.”
Her breath hitches again.
“Mine,” I add.
She swallows. “You have plenty of that.”
“Do I?” I ask.
Sadie’s eyes flick down to my hands—big, scarred, steady. Then back up. “You always did.”
I lean in a fraction more. “And you always liked pushing it.”
Sadie’s lips part. She catches herself. Closes them. “I’m here to learn,” she says, like she can shove the moment back into a box with the right words.
“Good,” I say. “Then learn this first.”
Her eyes narrow. “What?”
My voice drops. “You don’t get to walk back into my life and act like you didn’t leave a mark.”
