I look up to find Miles at the end of the couch, bare chested, a hand running through his messed-up bed hair.
“Oh hey, I was just saying goodbye. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Nah, couldn’t sleep, anyway.”
His hands hang by his sides.
“Oh, sorry.”
Why am I saying sorry?
Why am I . . . out of breath?
I swallow and stand.
“London, I?—”
“Yeah, nah, I should really head home. Mom will be wondering where I am.”
Not really.
But I can’t think of a better excuse to extract myself from his space before I do something stupid, like press my palm to his chest. Slide my hand around his neck and weave my hand through that messy dark blond hair of his.
My gaze drops to his mouth.
Fuck.
“See you at work,” I utter.
“Sure.”
I’m out the door before my hormones can destroy my damn career.
Dammit.
Ten minutes later, I push through our front door. It feels like I’m hardly ever here. Hardly ever spending time with Mama. And guilt wraps its oily grip around my heart and squeezes tight when I see her sitting on the couch, watching her favorite daytime television by herself.
I make a beeline for the pantry and find some snacks. Popcorn, which I shove in the microwave, some mixed nuts. Plucking out the bowl of fruit from the fridge, I prepare sliced portions of apple and orange and some watermelon.
When I have a platter, I make my way to the couch and drop by her side.
“Oh, hello my love. You’ve been busy, yeah?” she says.
“Yeah, busy bee, but I’m here now.”
She wraps her arm around my shoulders and tugs me closer. I pop the tray of goodies on my lap, and we snuggle, binge-watching the programs she loves.
“We lost a firefighter, Mama.”
She turns to me, face pinched with worry and heartache.
“He was from another engine, but it was still horrible.”
“Oh, my love.” She hauls me into her hold.
“I’m okay . . . some of my crew, they?—”
Throat thickening by the second, I guess the first loss will be the hardest. This year is going to be a long list of firsts. Not all of them will be pleasant. I close my eyes and moan through a sigh.
