Page 122 of Honeyfires

"You shouldn't have done that." The words came out hurt, scraped raw. "You shouldn't have defended me."

"Defended you?" She looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Petra, of course I defended you. What else would I do?"

"What if he was right?" The question burst out of me before I could stop it, all the doubt and self-loathing I'd been drowning in for three days finally finding voice. "What if he was right, Vera? What if those homes were worth more than—"

"Stop." She squeezed my hands hard enough to make me flinch. "Stop it right now."

"You weren't there." My voice cracked. "You don't know what it was like. You don't know if I made the right call or if I just panicked and got—"

"I know you." She released one of my hands to cup my face, forcing me to look at her. Her eyes were blazing, fierce with a certainty I didn't feel, couldn't feel. "I know you don't make decisions lightly. I know you're second-guessing yourself because people are hurting, and you have a hero complex the size of Arizona. But you saved lives, Petra. Hold on to that."

"But the homes—"

"Are buildings. Just buildings." Her thumb stroked across my cheekbone, catching a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "That man is grieving his sister's loss, and that's valid. But he's wrong. His sister is alive to grieve those memories because of an evacuation called by the fire department, and you got your crew out before the fire turned lethal. Brandon is in a hospital bed instead of a morgue because you trusted your instincts. You are not the villain here, no matter what the news says, no matter what stupid people in grocery stores say."

I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to believe her so badly it physically hurt.

"What if someone had died because of my call?" I whispered. "What if I'd been wrong and Stevens or Jackson or Miller or even Davids or Emerson had burned to death because I panicked?"

"But they didn't. They're alive. You're alive." She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to mine. "I know it doesn't feel like enough right now. I know you're carrying the weight of those six houses like crosses on your back. But, Petra, you saved six lives, including your own. Six actual human beings who get to go home to their families, who get to keep living and loving and existing in this world. That has to count for something."

It did count for something. Intellectually, I knew that. But the knowledge felt distant, separated from me by layers of guilt and shame and the persistent image of that man's face, twisted with grief and rage.

Vera pulled me into her arms as much as the car's center console would allow, and I buried my face in her neck, breathing in her familiar scent, letting it anchor me. Her hand stroked through my hair, gentle and soothing, while my body slowly stopped its violent trembling.

"I'm sorry," I said into her skin.

"For what?"

"For dragging you into this. For making you defend me in public. For—"

"Perpetua Alves, if you apologize one more time for being the person I fell in love with, I swear I will become significantly less patient." Her voice was teasing, but there was real emotion underneath it. "I defended you because I love you. Because you're worth defending. And I would do it again in a heartbeat, a thousand times over, to anyone who tried to make you believe otherwise."

Something in my nerves loosened, just slightly. Not enough to fix everything, not enough to make the guilt disappear or the suspension any less real. But enough to let me breathe a little easier.

"I love you," I said quietly.

"I know. And I love you, baby." She pressed a kiss to my temple. "Now let's go home."

"We still need groceries."

"We'll order delivery. I'm not letting you go back into that store today."

I almost argued. Almost insisted I could handle it, that I couldn't let one confrontation break me. But the truth was, I was broken. Had been broken since the moment I'd walked out of Station 19 with my gear in a box and my career in shambles. And maybe it was okay to admit that, just for today.

"Okay," I said. "Let's go home."

Home turned into a cage I'd built myself.

I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flames licking at the ridge, heard Rodriguez's voice ordering us to hold position, felt the heat of Stevens' blood on my hands when I'd helped pull him from the wreckage of his gear. When I did manage to drift off, the nightmares came. Twisted versions of that day where I made different choices, where I listened to Rodriguez and we all burned, where Stevens died in my arms while I apologized over and over for not acting sooner.

Food became an abstraction. Vera would make meals, beautiful meals that smelled amazing and should have made my mouth water, but when I looked at them all I could see was that man's face in the grocery store, hear him saying better you than six families losing everything.

I spent hours on my laptop, reading every article, every comment section, every social media post about the fire. It was like pressing on a bruise, checking to see if it still hurt, knowing it would but unable to stop myself. The internet had decided I was guilty; reckless at best, criminally negligent at worst. People who'd never fought a fire in their lives were explaining in excruciating detail what I should have done differently, how I'd failed, why I deserved to lose my job.

A few voices defended me. Rodriguez's official statement was neutral, but mentioned my eight years of exemplary service. A firefighter from another station in Phoenix wrote a thoughtful piece about split-second decisions in changing conditions. But those voices were drowned out by the chorus of condemnation, buried under the weight of collective outrage.

Vera tried. God, she tried.