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His own words, when his brothers were younger, when he’d had no idea how to be a parent because he wasn’t done being a kid. The minutes after they were asleep were both the best and the worst. The best because the house was finally quiet, and he was alone with his thoughts.
The worst for the exact same reason.
You can do anything for fifteen minutes.
He hadn’t been able to save his parents. And the fire had killed them a lot quicker than that.
The door behind him slid open, and he inwardly sighed, wondering who else couldn’t sleep, and how quickly their stress would double the weight of his own.
quo;d been a gentleman. He’d bought her coffee and pulled out her chair—little niceties she wasn’t used to, because she sure didn’t expect that around the firehouse. But every time he talked to her, his voice had been rough and quiet, as if every word were a secret just for her. It had made her shiver in a good way.
Tonight, he’d looked broken. She’d been afraid to touch him, as if one brush of skin would send him shattering into a million pieces. But then she had, and he’d clung to her as if he’d been afraid to let go. Some people might see it as weakness, but she didn’t. She knew how it felt to have life yank the rug out from under you. She knew what it meant to need someone to hold you, to share the weight of the world for a minute. For a second. She would have held him all night.
And then her father had shown up to act like Detective Dickhead.
As usual.
A locker door slammed over on the guys’ side of the dorm. Hannah ignored it, insulated on the women’s side. She wasn’t the only woman in the department, but there were few enough that sometimes it felt like it.
She should probably get going. She pushed the damp hair back from her face and slapped the faucet to kill the water.
She could hear male voices more clearly now, but with the dorm area door closed, she couldn’t make out more than muffled tones, then laughter with an edge. Giving someone shit, from the sound of it.
Men. She sighed and reached for her towel.
Her phone was on the counter, and the screen lit with a message. Hannah pushed the button, hoping for a return text from Michael.
Her mother.
I have lunch packed for James. Need me to take him to school?
Hannah smiled. While her father treated her as if she’d never live up to his expectations, her mother made up for that lack of warmth tenfold. Hannah looked at the time and texted back.
I should be home in time.
A new message almost immediately.
I don’t want you to have to rush. You work so hard.
Maybe it was the timing of the message, or the emotion of the preceding twelve hours, but Hannah could swear she felt tears rushing to her eyes again.
Maybe her mom could sense it, because another message appeared almost immediately.
Don’t worry about rushing. If I don’t see you in the next 20, I’ll take him. I’ll put a note in his lunchbox from mommy.
Hannah smiled. Her mom always thought of details like that. She’d probably draw a picture and sign it from “mommy,” full of Xs and Os.
Hannah made a mental note to empty the dishwasher or vacuum the living room or something, just to let the woman know her efforts weren’t ignored. She put the phone on the counter and used the towel to scrub vigorously at her body. If she rushed, she could make it home in time to see James.
The phone lit again, and Hannah grabbed it from the counter. It wasn’t like her mother to keep a text conversation going. The woman needed emoticons explained, for god’s sake.
But it wasn’t her mother. It was Michael Merrick.
Sorry I couldn’t look for you. Are you OK?
Hannah stared at the message for a while. Too long—she realized she was still standing here na**d and freezing.
Yeah. You?
