Page 4 of Christmas with the Firefighter
The honest answer is that I've been looking for excuses to stay since the moment I walked into her room and saw her standing there, soaked and flustered and more beautiful than she has any right to be.
"The system needs time to cycle through the reset," I say instead, which is technically true. "I need to make sure everything's working properly before I can clear the call."
She nods like this makes perfect sense, but there's something knowing in her eyes that suggests she sees right through me.
"Besides," I add, because apparently I can't leave well enough alone, "you looked like you could use some company."
"Was it that obvious?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I'm usually better at pretending I have my life together."
"What makes you think you need to pretend?"
The question surprises her, I can see it in the way her eyebrows lift, the way she tilts her head like she's never considered that she might not have to perform composure for everyone she meets.
"I don't know," she says slowly. "I guess I'm just used to being... a lot. Taking up too much space, feeling too much, wanting too much. It's easier to keep moving than to stay somewhere long enough for people to realize I'm more than they bargained for."
I want to ask who taught her to think of herself that way, want to find them and explain a few things about what happens when you make someone like Miranda feel unwelcome in her own skin.
Instead, I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and meet her eyes in the firelight.
"For what it's worth," I say, "I don't think you're too much of anything."
She stares at me for a long moment, like she's waiting for the punchline or the caveat or the gentle letdown that probably comes after most compliments in her experience.
When none comes, something shifts in her expression, surprise giving way to something softer.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I find myself cataloging details I have no business noticing, like the way her bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top, the way she has a small scar near her left eyebrow, the way her hands are delicate despite the calluses that suggest she works with them.
"What about you?" she asks, breaking the spell. "Do you always rescue damsels in distress, or am I special?"
There's teasing in her voice, but underneath it is a genuine question, and I realize she's trying to figure out if this connection I'm feeling is real or just my standard bedside manner.
"I don't really do the rescue thing," I admit. "At least, not the personal kind."
"What does that mean?"
I lean back in my chair, trying to find words for something I've never had to explain before. "I show up, I do the job, I go home. I don't get involved in people's lives, don't stick around to see what happens after the crisis passes. It's easier that way."
"Easier how?"
"Safer." The word slips out before I can stop it, more honest than I intended to be.
She studies my face in the firelight.
"You've been hurt," she says quietly. It's not a question.
"Haven't we all?"
"Some of us more than others."
She's right, and the gentle way she says it tells me she recognizes the particular brand of caution that comes from having your heart handed back to you in pieces.
"I was engaged," I hear myself say. "A few years ago. She left."
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine. Ancient history."
