Damn him for being so perceptive.
I take a shaky breath, wrapping my arms around my knees. “Fine. You’re not wrong. My family… they’re everything you’d expect from old money. Powerful, influential, and suffocating. I spent my entire life trying to be the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect… everything. And it wasn’t enough.”
“Enough for who?”
“For them. For me.” I shake my head, bitterness creeping into my voice. “I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I walked away. This work, these stories—it’s the only thing that’s mine.”
He studies me, his expression unreadable. “Sounds like you’re braver than you give yourself credit for.”
I snort, the sound harsh even to my own ears. “Brave or stupid. Take your pick.”
“Brave,” he says firmly, and the conviction in his voice makes my chest tighten.
“Do you ever regret it?” I ask.
“Regret what?”
“Choosing this life. Staying here, fighting fires, being… Flint.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “Being Flint, huh? Can’t say I’ve thought about it like that.”
“You know what I mean.”
He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Some days. But then I remember why I’m here. Why it matters. And no, I don’t regret it.”
His honesty feels like a gift, one I didn’t realize I needed.
“And you?” he asks, his gaze locking onto mine. “Do you regret leaving your family?”
“Not for a second,” I say without hesitation.
“Good.”
The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning. He sits on the cot, scooting to the edge and patting the empty space next to him. I tuck myself against him, curling under the crook of his arm as we adjust our bodies into a comfortable position.
The proximity feels dangerous, like we’re playing with something we can’t control.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says quietly, his voice like a low rumble of thunder.
I glance at him, my heart skipping a beat. “What did you expect?”
“Someone less... infuriating.”
I laugh, the sound loud and unguarded. “Well, sorry to disappoint.”
“You don’t,” he says, and the intensity in his tone makes my laughter fade.
I swallow hard, my pulse quickening. “Flint…”
He shifts, his hand brushing against mine. The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt through me.
“You don’t scare easy,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips.
“Neither do you,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, we just sit there, the tension between us thick and electric. Then, slowly, he leans in, his breath warm against my skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice rough.
