Page 26 of Hex Appeal

He looks at our hands.

“So am I.”

The words are quiet.

Too quiet.

“You weren't there,” I say gently.

“No.”

“That wasn't your fault.”

“I know that.”

His mouth says it.

The rest of him doesn’t.

He draws a breath.

“I kept thinking about how I’d spent years training to run toward exactly that kind of situation. Then, when it happened to people I knew, I was hundreds of miles away having a good time.”

“You were allowed to have a weekend away.”

“I know.”

Again, he says it like something he has memorized rather than something he believes.

“I went home after that. Took some time off. Started volunteering with the department again.” He shrugs. “Eventually, I stopped pretending I was going back to finance.”

“And became a firefighter.”

“Full time. Then chief.”

I look at him differently now.

I can’t help it.

All those questions about my wax and wicks and jars. The warnings. The irritation every time I make light of those fires.

It wasn't about proving me incompetent.

Not really.

Fire took people from him.

Of course he wants to understand every flame he can.

Something shifts inside my chest.

Not pity.

Definitely not that.

Something considerably more dangerous.

I think I like him.