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She’s here.

Not a dream. Not a memory. Real.

I don’t move. I barely breathe. I just watch her—light green eyes locked on mine, braid slipping over her shoulder like it’s always belonged there. She’s older now, but the moment I see her, I know. I’d recognize her anywhere.

She was barely more than a girl the last time I saw her—covered in ash, shaking in my arms, coughing like her lungs were giving up. And now… she’s standing tall, steady, with this quiet strength that hits me straight in the chest.

She’s beautiful. Soft where I’m hard, warm where I’ve gone cold. And somehow, she hasn’t lost that light. If anything, it’s brighter. And damn if I don’t feel every scar on my body heat up just looking at her.

My hands twitch. Part instinct, part memory. I want to reach out. Grip her waist. Anchor her to me just to be sure she won’t vanish.

The ash-covered girl I carried out of hell is here.

And without saying a word, she reminds me of everything I thought I’d buried—what it means to protect someone, and what it means to feel again.

It’s uncomfortable.

I don’t like feeling this vulnerable, this open, this... seen.

Isolation is better. It’s comfortable, it’s constant, and I don’t want that to change. I keep to myself because that’s what I know. It’s better to stay in control, to keep people at a distance, to keep them from getting close enough to see that my scars are more than skin deep.

When I’m in my fire gear as a volunteer, when I’m a ranger without a name, I know I’m in control. Control is what matters.

“You’re ... you,” she whispers.

Her voice is a melody I want to hear again and again which isn’t normal. I’m the kind of man who prefers to do rather than talk, but here she is.

I have to say something before she gets the wrong idea. “Do I know you?”

She takes a step forward. “You saved me six years ago. From a fire. I’m sure I’m not the only person you’ve helped… but…”

She chews the inside of her cheek, looking down, then slowly back up at me. A faint blush stains her cheeks, making her freckles even more obvious.

Fuck, why am I having this reaction to her? She’s just a person! I shuffle some of the papers on the desk. I just need an out.

“I know you might not remember me. It’s been a while and I’m sure you’re busy, but ... um ... Have you read my letters?” She whispers, holding up the one she’s brought in a pale blue envelope.

Yes, each and every one .

“I know it could be a lot. One letter is gratitude, but every year could be overwhelming. But ... if you have, I mean I didn’t expect a reply, but why haven’t you?” She asks, her head turning slightly to the side. “Answered me, I mean.”

The more attention she gives me, the more my body vibrates just from being in her presence.

She doesn’t ask anything else. Just looks at me. And I’ve got no idea what the hell to say.

I know her name from the letters. I’ve read every one—more than once. I kept trying to figure out why she kept writing. Why she remembered that day with anything other than fear. Why she saw me as something good.

None of that’s easy to admit. Hell, it all sounds weak.

And I’m not a weak man.

Which means I need space. Distance. Some kind of out, even if every instinct in me wants to stay planted right here. Even if she’s standing there like a perfect spring day come to life—and somehow makes flowers and fresh air feel like something I could actually want.

“You should stop coming here,” I finally answer.

She blinks a few times and opens her mouth. “You don’t like-”

“The past is the past,” I simplify and walk out, brushing past her like she might reach out—stop me, see more than I want her to. She doesn’t touch me.

But she still feels like a threat. Not the kind you run from, but the kind that sees too much, too fast. The kind that makes you want things you’ve trained yourself to live without.

When I get in my truck, parked in the back, I hesitate. I linger in the shade and shadows where I belong as I watch her get safely to her car – not that anything would threaten her here. I massage my forehead.

Nora was a scared teenager when I last saw her. Scared, wide-eyed, coughing, and clung to me like I was her last chance at life itself. Now, she’s more. Six years have made her beautiful, warm, and vibrant with a shocking kindness that doesn’t seem possible when life is as brutal as it is.

In a few seconds, she’s gone—fading into the distance like none of it ever happened. Like she never walked through that door. Never looked at me like I was more than a shadow from her past. Never asked about the letters or...

Shit.

I should walk away. Stay in the truck. Keep pretending none of this touched me.

But my feet won’t listen.

Before I know it, I’m back inside. Like gravity pulled me there.

And there it is—an envelope waiting on the desk.

I stare at it, jaw tight. I shouldn’t take it. I should tear it in half, shred it, pretend I never saw it. Just like I should’ve destroyed the others—the letters, the photos, all those pieces of her world she kept sending like I had a place in it.

But I didn’t.

And I won’t now.

Because the truth is—I’ve never stopped wanting to read every damn word.

Clearing my throat, I stare at the letter for a long moment. After a slow breath, I pull it out. I sneer at myself and my own instinctual need to be known even though the idea of it is terrible.

Stranger,

Six years of writing you means I should run out of things to say, right?

I won’t tell you again how much you’ve inspired me and kept me on track.

I’d rather tell you something more ... personal.

I want tell you how different my dreams are.

When I dream of that day and of you now, there’s no fire.

But there are sparks. This is kind of a .

.. well don’t read it around others, please.

Anyway, I dream of you holding me, laying me down, stroking my face and saying, “I’ve got you.

You’re safe” again before you lean in closer and I slowly kiss across-

I look away and refold the letters. I haven’t been able to think of her as a teenager in a while considering the pictures she’s sent (all appropriate, but still overwhelming). All the same, the fact she’s giving me entrance into her dreams and fantasies makes more of our relationship than there is.

I told her the same things I would tell anyone I was rescuing from a fire. I meant it. She was safe with me. I wouldn’t let her go. I had her, in my arms, in my grip, and wouldn’t leave her behind.

Sure, I’ve read every letter. I’ve seen how much she thinks of me considering she never has problems filling a page or two with her neat, half-cursive handwriting that’s as bouncy and curvaceous as she is.

She’s stopped thanking me, started telling me about her life, what she hopes my life is, what she hopes I know and think of myself.

Always too damn positive and optimistic, but I have no idea what to do with this letter.

Shaking my head, I shove the letter in my pocket and run my hand over the back of my neck. She’s too young for me. She’s too bright and sunny. She’s too good and she doesn’t belong here where I live, surrounded by trees and animals I’d rather talk to than people.

Nora has so much to give this world, and the sooner she lets go of whatever she thinks we are—whatever dream she’s built around me—the better.

Because we’re not meant for each other. That’s the truth.

And if she can’t see it, I’ll make damn sure she does. Maybe that short conversation already did the job. Maybe she’ll leave and finally realize I was just a man doing what needed to be done. Nothing more.

I’m not someone worth waiting for. Not someone worth writing to. I’m not the man you cross miles for.

I’m just here—existing in the same world she does. And that’s all we were ever meant to share.