Page 18 of Melting for the Firefighter
Iwakeinabed that smells like Lance.
Cedar soap. Clean cotton. A faint trace of smoke that makes my heart jump before I remember where I am.
His house.
His bedroom.
His enormous sweatshirt wrapped around me.
My gaze finds him in the chair beside the bed.
Lance is asleep with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tipped against the wall. The position looks painful enough to require medical attention. He stayed there anyway.
Sunlight slips through the blinds and falls across his forearms.
The scars are clearer in daylight.
Small, pale circles. Too even to be random. Too many to be an accident.
My chest aches.
I have wondered about them for two years. Seeing them here, while he sleeps beside me after carrying me from a burning building, makes curiosity feel too small a word.
I shift beneath the blanket.
His eyes open immediately.
“What hurts?”
“Good morning to you too.”
He is out of the chair before I finish speaking.
One hand cups my jaw. The other presses lightly against my forehead.
“Dizzy?”
“A little.”
“Chest tight?”
“Only when a large firefighter interrogates me before breakfast.”
The corner of his mouth moves.
Almost.
“I’ll make food.”
“You cook?”
“Eggs.”
“That answer lacks confidence.”
“They’re decent.”
“Decent is what people call food when they are trying to avoid legal trouble.”
