Page 5 of The Firefighter's Claim
"Discharge?" I repeat, the word triggering a wave of panic. Discharge to where? My apartment is gone. My clothes, my teaching materials, my life—all up in smoke. The teddy bear I'd clutched during the rescue sits on the bedside table, its fur singed but intact. It might be the only possession I have left.
The nurse mistakes my panic for relief. "Yes, you're doing well enough to go home. Just minor smoke inhalation."
Home.The word echoes hollowly.
"She doesn't have a home anymore," Dagger says, his voice tight. It's the first time he's spoken to anyone but me since we arrived. "Her apartment was destroyed in the fire."
The nurse's smile falters. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you have family locally? Someone you can stay with?"
I shake my head. "My parents are in Ohio. I don't really know anyone here yet." Four months in New York, and I've been too busy setting up my classroom and apartment to make close friends. The irony isn't lost on me—I finally achieve independence, only to lose everything.
"The Red Cross has temporary housing options," the nurse offers, but her voice sounds distant beneath the rushing in my ears.
"She's coming with me."
Dagger's declaration cuts through my spiraling thoughts. His tone brooks no argument, as if it's already decided. My head snaps up to meet his gaze.
"What? No, I couldn't possibly?—"
"You need somewhere to stay. I have room." His eyes soften fractionally. "It's safe."
The way he says "safe" makes my stomach flip, like he's offering more than just four walls and a roof. Like he's offering himself as a human shield between me and the world.
"But you don't even know me," I protest weakly.
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "I know enough."
The doctor arrives before I can respond, a harried-looking woman with kind eyes who confirms I'm well enough to leave. She prescribes rest, fluids, and follow-up with my primary care physician in a week.
"Do you have any questions?" she asks, already edging toward the door, clearly needed elsewhere.
I have a thousand questions, but none she can answer. Why does this stranger's presence make me feel both terrified and protected? Why can't I stop staring at his hands, wondering how they'd feel against my skin without the barrier of fire gear? Why am I considering going home with a man I just met, when everything I've ever been taught screams that it's dangerous?
"No questions," I whisper.
She leaves, and then it's just us again—me in a hospital gown that gaps embarrassingly across my chest, him standing like he's prepared to catch me if I so much as sway.
"I should call a hotel," I say, reaching for the hospital phone.
His hand engulfs mine before I can lift the receiver. "No."
Just that. One word, but weighted with such authority that my protest dies on my lips.
"Look," I try again, "I appreciate everything you've done. You saved my life. But you don't owe me anything else. Your job is done."
His jaw tightens. "This isn't about the job."
"Then what is it about?" I challenge, finding a shred of backbone.
He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You know what it's about."
And strangely, I do. I feel it too—this inexplicable connection, this sense that the universe shifted when he carried me from the fire. But it doesn't make logical sense. These things don't happen in real life. Men who look like him don't fixate on women who look like me.
"I don't have clothes," I say, grasping at practicalities. "Or toiletries. Or anything."
"I'll take care of it." Three more words, equally definitive.
The nurse returns with discharge papers and a set of hospital scrubs for me to wear home. Dagger steps outside while I change, but his presence looms even in his absence.
