Page 23 of The Blaze Between Us

The direct question demands a direct answer. "Connection. Vulnerability. The ability to need people rather than just be needed by them."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize their truth. In my determination to be the rock that Ellie needed, I'd walled off parts of myself, becoming more symbol than man—dependable, solid, emotionally contained.

Tasha's expression is thoughtful, her eyes never leaving mine. "I understand that more than you might think. It's easier to be the one who doesn't need anything."

"Easier, but lonelier," I acknowledge.

"Yes." The simple confirmation carries the weight of shared understanding between us.

We're quiet for a moment, the room filled with the kind of silence that doesn't need to be broken. There's something profoundly intimate about sitting here with her, discussing the wounds that shaped us, more exposed than I've allowed myself to be with anyone in years.

"Did you ever consider remarrying?" she asks finally. "After enough time had passed?"

I consider the question honestly.

"I dated occasionally, when Ellie was older. Nothing ever clicked." I pause, searching for the right words. "It wasn't about comparing them to Claire like people sometimes assume. It was more that I'd become... complete in myself. Self-contained. The women I met could sense that there was no real space for them."

"And now?"

"Now Ellie's grown," I say. "My life is different. I'm different."

"Different how?"

I meet her gaze directly. "More aware of what's missing. Less willing to pretend it isn't."

Something shifts in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or something deeper. She adjusts her position on the sofa, wincing slightly as she jostles her injured ankle.

"Let me check that," I say, grateful for the distraction-

I move to the other end of the sofa and gently lift the ice pack from her ankle. The swelling has gone down a bit, but the bruising is becoming more pronounced—purple and blue blooming across her delicate skin.

"How's it feel?" I ask.

"Better when I don't move it," she admits. "The ice helped."

My fingers lightly trace the area around the bruising, checking for heat or unusual swelling. Her skin is soft and cool from the ice, and I'm aware of how easily my hand spans her ankle.

"I should rewrap it," I say, reaching for the elastic bandage on the coffee table.

As I begin to wrap her ankle with gentle pressure, Tasha watches me with a smile.

"You're good at this," she observes. "Taking care of people."

"Lots of practice," I reply, focusing on the task to avoid meeting her eyes.

"Is that all it is? Professional training?"

I secure the bandage and look up, finding her gaze fixed intently on me. "What else would it be?"

"I think caring for people is fundamental to who you are," she says with surprising conviction. "Not just what you do. It's why you're a good father, a good fire chief. Why you're sitting here wrapping a sprained ankle for your daughter's friend instead of dropping me at urgent care."

Her assessment strikes uncomfortably close to the truth. "You make me sound like a saint," I deflect. "I assure you I'm not."

"I didn't say you were perfect," she counters. "Just fundamentally caring. There's a difference."

I place a fresh ice pack on her newly wrapped ankle, buying time before I have to respond. "You're giving me too much credit."

"And you're not giving yourself enough." There's a quiet certainty in her voice that makes it hard to dismiss her words.

---