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“In the field, there’s no one in the burning house or building.

And if there is, I have to trust my team to get them out.

There’s no one I care about within miles of the fire.

But today?” He angles his head to look down to me, using a finger to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.

“Today, it felt like two people I care about were in harm’s way, and I was so scared of freezing.

” His jade eyes bore into me, feeling new and familiar at the same time.

Like I’ve looked into them so many times before but not like this.

Not with clouds of emotion making it hard to see his green irises or the gold flecks that only appear in certain light.

“W-we were okay,” I manage to say, my mouth feeling dry all of a sudden.

“Logically, rationally, I know that— knew that,” he answers, his finger still just below my chin, his face so close to mine; it would only take each of us to move forward just an inch for there to be no space left.

“But my PTSD clouds my judgement, making me think of any and all irrational, catastrophized outcomes, like that tiny flame turning into an unmanageable one, the alarms or sprinklers not working, Luke not having a goddamn fire extinguisher, the fire burning you or Evee before I could do anything to stop it. It’s not probable or rational, but it was all I could think while the candle was burning. ”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say while he looks at me like this, so much raw emotion that I feel my own eyes pooling with tears that threaten to fall.

Jack gives me a small smile. It’s not like the ones he usually gives me, the ones that curve to one side of his face. This one is sad—and a sad smile is the most bittersweet one of all. “What did I tell you about apologizing for things that aren’t your fault, pretty girl?”

I grab his hand that’s just under my chin, holding it with both of mine as I bring it to my chest. “I’m not apologizing for what happened to you. I’m apologizing because I don’t like seeing you hurting.”

Jack sighs, and I feel his grip on my hip tighten. “I think I’ve been hurting for a while now. There’s so many pieces of me that broke when Bennett died, but I just kept stomping on them while pretending I would be able to forget and move on. ”

“Sometimes it’s easier to pretend,” I tell him, and my own experiences come to mind.

“It’s easier to pretend that things aren’t so bad, or that they’ll get better.

” I think of all the times I told myself that if I just got through the day doing what my father wanted me to do, I could make it to my bedroom without having a new cut or bruise to hide the next day.

I told myself that once I had the baby, Trevor would stop. I just had to get through this pregnancy, and he would never lay a hand on me again.

“But it’s just wishful thinking.” The words are for both me and Jack.

“In the end, until we actually confront our grief and our trauma, we’re just hurting ourselves more.

” I look out toward the skyline, the parking lot of Hey Honey’s basically empty, giving us a perfect view of the sun just starting its slow descent.

“I’m sorry you’re hurting, Jack. And I’m here for you while you put yourself back together. ”

I lean my head to rest it on his shoulder.

“My therapist used this stupid grief analogy the first time I saw him right after Bennett died.” A sound escapes his throat—a mix of a laugh and a scoff.

“The chief made us all go to mandatory sessions after we lost Bennett, and I only made it through the one before quitting and heading up north.”

“What was it?” I ask.

“He said that grief was like a fire, and it took everything in me to stay seated on that couch and listen to him go on and on about it. It wasn’t until I went back a year and a half later, and he told me the analogy again, that it actually started to mean something to me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to understand. “Grief is like a fire?”

Jack nods. “He said that all it takes is a spark for a fire to grow. And, just like grief, once it catches, it gets bigger, spreading faster, burning through everything in its path, not caring what or who it hurts in the process. It has to burn before it can slow down, eventually settling to coals.”

“But it never really goes out.” My voice is soft as I let his words sink in, understanding grief in a new way.

“It never really goes out,” Jack repeats, leaning his head on top of mine. “Once it turns to coals, all it takes is a gust of wind for the fire to spark again—sometimes burning big and tall for hours and hours, sometimes just a little flame that goes out right away.”

We sit in the comfortable silence for a few moments as we both sink into our own thoughts. I’ve never lost someone close to me that I cared about. I was so young when my mom left that I barely remember her to begin with.

And I don’t grieve my father—wherever he is these days.

But I do grieve the life I never had, the childhood that was taken from me, the freedom I found that Trevor stole, the family I saw others have—the one I always wanted.

The one I finally have a choice to build on my own for me and Evee.

I bring Jack’s hand to my lips, pressing a kiss against the back, wishing something so small could take all this away the pain he must carry after losing his best friend.

His head lifts from where it’s resting on mine. “Do that again,” he says, his voice gravelly and low. “Please.” I look up at him, and he uses his other hand to point a finger to his lips. “Right here.”

A wave of confidence mixes in with all the emotions flooding through me—the feeling of being in Jack’s arms is addicting, the same way I feel more like myself when I’m with him than I have in years.

The way he opened up to me, wanting to share this side of himself with me, makes me feel like it’s okay to do the same with him.

From the beginning, Jack has made me feel safe in a way no man has ever done for me. He has done little things—some without even realizing—that have made me trust him more and more, bit by bit.

And learning to trust him has allowed me to learn to trust myself.

I let go of his hand, bringing it to his cheek. His skin is warm, his facial hair rough against my palm as I press against his skin. He doesn’t make an effort to lean in, leaving me to do this on my terms, at my speed—something I didn’t know I needed, didn’t even know I wanted.

But somehow Jack did.

My hand trembles against his cheek, and he must feel it because he brings his hand to rest on top of mine. He turns his head to lightly press his lips to my palm, the heat of his lips sending shivers throughout my entire body, and a sense of want and longing spreads in my lower belly.

This is too soon.

We’re just friends, aren’t we?

Won’t this ruin everything?

My brain is terrified as it tells me yes, but my heart is more afraid of never knowing what Jack’s lips feel like against mine.

Gently pulling him to me, I lean in slowly, my heart pounding like a warning and a wish, as I press my lips to his—soft, tentative, wavering with the hope and fear I’ve been holding on to for so long.

My chest aches with the weight of everything both said and unsaid between us, and the worry of what this could mean.

Jack doesn’t move as I pull my lips away from his, instantly missing the warmth. I stare up into his eyes, waiting for them to open. When they finally do, it’s like he’s seeing my past, present, and future all with one gaze, and I bask in the attention.

In this moment, I want to tear myself wide open and let him see every part of me—all the parts I keep buried, the parts I hide away, the parts I forgot were even there.

“Rumi.” He says my name like a prayer, like the chorus of his favorite song.

Like a promise.