“What the hell.” His voice is rough scratch.
I almost feel bad for getting him excited enough to raise his voice. But at least it’s something besides indifference.
“The crews have the fire contained past the ridge. They’ll manage without you while you heal, Hotshot,” I mumble, curling deeper into the chair. Yes, this could work. It’s just comfortable enough that it’s tempting me to settle in for the long haul, instead of a brief respite. The worn vinyl urges me to ignore the urge to busy myself doing something to help Emmett—to make him more comfortable.
His jaw flexes, making his already chiseled features sharper as frustration bleeds into fatigue and I lean forward, readying myself for whatever he needs. But when he settles back, I recognize the familiar discomfort of being still.
Helping makes me feel useful. It’s where I fit.
And it’s my brothers’ favorite joke. They call me “Little Miss Fix-It.”
But helping gives me something to do . . . something Icando.
Emmett Slate should slot neatly into that category of people I can help and move on from.
So why am I still in his room?
I’ve seen him. He’s okay.
His eyes from the helicopter flash through my mind. He looked at me like I wasn’t just useful—butreal.
I still don’t know what to do with that.
“Feels wrong.” His voice is low and scratchy, pulling me from my thoughts.
His Adam's apple bobs with a swallow that doesn’t quite clear the gravel from his voice. “Sitting here, while my crew is still out there.”
I frown because it’s exactly how I’d feel.
That thought has me realizing something I didn’t see before.
We’re both fixers in our own way.
“You did your part . . . and then some.” I stop and wait for the tightness in my throat to ease. “Thank youhardly seems adequate. Not many people would put themselves between someone else and a fire.”
Something in him goes still.
For the first time since stepping inside his room, recognition flashes across his face; his head tilts. “You did.”
I huff out a quiet breath, brushing it off instead of letting it land.
For a second, his gaze holds mine—steady, searching, just like he did in the helicopter.
Then it’s gone, shuttering just as quickly, whatever loosened in him pulling tight again beneath the surface.
“I wasn’t sure if you remembered,” I admit. “You were pretty out of it.”
He shrugs, something easing in him a fraction. “Didn’t at first.” He lets the pillows take his weight, and it feels an awful lot like trust. “So, you weren’t an angel.”
“The only wings I have are the ones embroidered onto my flight suit.” I adjust his blanket, already stepping back. “Try to get some sleep. It might make the difference in getting out of here sooner.”
I linger for longer than I should, but he doesn’t look at me again.
Like whatever softened him toward me never happened.
I’ve seen two versions of him now: The one that held on like I was the only thing keeping him grounded. And this closed-off version who’s quick to pull away.
I don’t know which one is real.
