Page 56 of Honeyfires

"Fuck," I said, which was not the word I'd been planning to say a minute ago.

"Go." She was already signaling for the waiter with one hand and squeezing mine with the other. "I'll handle the bill."

"Vera, I'm so sorry—"

"Petra." She looked at me across the candles, steady and certain and so heartbreakingly beautiful I wanted to say something entirely dangerous and scary to her right then, over the untouched second course. "I know what I signed up for. Go save them."

I stood. Hesitated. Almost said it.

"There will be other dinners," she said. "Go. Text me when you can. And—" Her voice caught almost imperceptibly. "Be safe. Please be safe."

I leaned down and kissed her, tasting wine on her lips, knowing she was tasting apology on mine.

Then I ran for the station.

The fire wasn't catastrophically bad. But it was bad enough.

The lightning had sparked in the scrubland near Salvador Ridge, wind pushing it toward a cluster of homes on the outskirts. We'd gotten everyone out—that was the only thing that mattered—but we lost two structures before we got a line around it.

I watched one of them burn. A small ranch house with a white wraparound porch, the kind that had probably held rocking chairs and endless Sunday mornings and a family's entire ordinary life. The owners stood on the road, the woman sobbing into her husband's chest, as the roof collapsed inward. Everything they owned. All those photographs that couldn't be replaced.

We worked through most of the night. By the time Rodriguez called it contained, it was nearing three in the morning, and I was covered in soot and ash and that enormous exhaustion that came from hours of cutting line in the dark.

I pulled my phone out as we loaded equipment back onto the engines. Three texts from Vera.

Stay safe, baby love.

I know you can't respond. Just wanted you to know I'm thinking about you.

Let me know when you're coming home?

I sent back the water droplet emoji, which was our signal for contained, danger mostly past, and then a heart.

On my way home now.

Her response came immediately.

I'll be waiting.

I expected her apartment to be dark. Expected to let myself in quietly, shower until the water ran clear, and collapse next to her sleeping form without waking her.

The lights were on.

I climbed the stairs slowly, my body acknowledging its complaints one joint at a time. When I opened the door, the smell hit me first. Something warm and savory, completely at odds with the smoke still clinging to my jacket.

Vera appeared in the kitchen doorway in one of my old station t-shirts and tiny sleep shorts, her hair in a messy bun, her glasses on, holding a dish towel. She'd set up food on the counter. Soup, fresh bread, and hot chocolate.

"Hey," she said softly.

"You didn't have to—"

"I know."

She crossed the room, and I tried to step back, acutely aware of what I smelled like. She wrapped her arms around me anyway, pressing her face into my filthy jacket without hesitation, like she'd assessed the situation and made her decision, and the decision was—irrelevant.

"I wanted to," she said against my chest.

I cracked open. Just slightly. Just enough.