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The smoke wasn’t the thick, suffocating kind that steals your breath in one greedy gulp. It was the thin, bitter kind that sneaks into your lungs and lingers on your skin, a ghost you carry home. TK could taste penny-metal and ash on the back of his tongue as he sat on the curb, an oxygen mask strapped over his nose and mouth, the elastic digging into damp hair at his temples. Each inhale drew cool, medicinal air that fogged the clear plastic; each exhale trembled a little more than he wanted it to. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking around a water bottle he hadn’t yet opened. Ten feet away, the boy he’d pulled out—maybe six, hair matted with ash—was crying into his mother’s neck but breathing steady. Alive and whole. For one shivery heartbeat pride and relief flared warm in TK’s chest. I found him. He’s okay. I did something right. The thought lasted half a second before the rest crashed in. No gear. Wrong job. You know better.
“Strand.” Tommy’s shadow cut across the sunlight, her voice calm and even, which was somehow worse than yelling. She crouched so they were eye to eye, one hand braced on her knee, the other flicking a glance over his vitals—shallow, fast breaths easing under the mask; soot smudged along his hairline; a scrape at his wrist. “You’re done for the day.”
He tried to answer and his words thudded into plastic. “Cap—” He pulled the mask aside an inch, instantly tasting smoke again. “Cap, I heard him. Pantry off the kitchen—”
“Mask stays on.” Tommy’s tone didn’t rise; it didn’t need to. She nudged the elastic back into place herself, gentler than her words. “Inside a burning structure. No SCBA. No turnout gear. While on my medic unit.” Her eyes were steady and unblinking, like she could hold the whole scene in place and make him look at it until he understood. “I don’t care that you used to be a firefighter. You are my paramedic now. We do not freelance. We do not add a victim.”
Behind her, Nancy stood with her arms crossed, eyebrows knit, the set of her mouth flickering between worry and irritation. Owen hovered at the edge of the crowd, jaw clenched, sleeves rolled, the lines at his eyes etched deep; TK could feel his father’s restraint from here, the way Captain Strand was winning the war against Dad by millimeters.
TK swallowed around the mask and nodded. The elastic squeaked. His chest hitched. He wanted to say I’m sorry and also I’d do it again and also I won’t, I promise, I won’t. All of it tangled together with the sweet, thin cry he’d followed and the muscle memory of going in.
Nancy stepped in beside Tommy and went clinical because that was how she loved people at work. She clipped the pulse ox to TK’s finger and glanced at the number without trusting it. “How are you feeling?” she asked, cheeks hollowing as she checked his pupils. “Headache? Nausea?”
He shook his head, then winced at the sting along his hairline. “Just hot. Little sting. I’m fine.” It came out muffled through the mask, the word fine tasting like a lie and saline.
“Uh-huh,” Nancy said, dry. She tightened the mask seal with two careful fingers, then adjusted the flow up until the bag on the nonrebreather stayed full. “High-flow stays put. And don’t argue with me, Strand. Pulse ox isn’t the Bible after smoke; we go by how you look, and you look like you tried to make out with a space heater.”
“I heard him,” TK said again, softer now, like if he kept it small it would hurt fewer people. “He was coughing. I could map the floor in my head. It was—” He swallowed. “It was right there.”
Tommy’s mouth pressed thin. “Then you radio it. You direct the team. You trust your brothers and sisters to do their job while you do yours.” She tipped her head toward the engine, where boots and tools and full SCBA sets were already moving like a single animal. “Those were the people who should’ve gone in. Not my medic in an EMT shirt.”
TK’s gaze slid to the boy, who had stopped crying and was staring at the engine with big, shell-shocked eyes. Relief twisted into shame. He pulled in a breath through the mask and felt the cool oxygen soothe the rasp he hadn’t admitted was there. I’m a medic now. I’m a medic. Stand by the bag. Stand by the monitor. Don’t be first through smoke.
Owen’s voice cut across the scene, giving orders, and then—just once—“TK!” The sound made him flinch even though it wasn’t meant for him. Owen didn’t come closer. He didn’t need to. TK could feel the look his father threw at him from thirty feet: a quick scan like a hand to a forehead—present, upright, breathing—and then Owen turned back to work, because that was what they all had to do.
Nancy nudged his knee with the back of her hand, undercutting the worst of the shame. “You’re not supposed to make me need a medic while I’m working with a medic,” she muttered, but she uncapped the electrolyte drink for him because his fingers were still trembling and slid a straw under the edge of the mask so he could sip without taking it off. “Tiny sips. You’re going to have a doozy of a headache if you don’t.”
Through the mask, he tried a weak smile. “Yes, Mom.”
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me unless you want the full speech,” she said, but her eyes softened. “Your face—” She winced. “It’s just small singes, but they’re going to sting like hell once the adrenaline wears off.”
He nodded. The sting was already there, fine and bright along his cheekbones where heat had kissed and left its mark. The elastic of the mask dug into tender skin and he didn’t dare move it. He kept his eyes on the family because looking at them made something in his ribcage ease. The boy’s mother was rocking him, whispering thank you, thank you to no one in particular. TK would remember the kid’s hiccuping breaths later, proof that the world had tilted toward mercy today.
Tommy’s voice gentled without losing its edge. “We will talk more about it later.” She glanced toward the rig, then back at him. “For now, sit. Breathe. Hydrate. You’re off my truck.”
The words landed heavy but right. He was already preparing to nod again when Tommy added, quieter, concern wrapped tightly around authority, “I called Carlos.”
TK’s chest squeezed under the mask. Relief hit first—Carlos was coming; he wasn’t alone—followed immediately by dread because Carlos would hear what he’d done and see the red along his hairline and the scrape on his wrist and put the story together with that slow, terrifying accuracy of his.
“He’s on his way,” Tommy finished, and even though she didn’t smile, her hand hovered an inch from his shoulder, a promise and a warning both.
By the time the blue Camaro rolled up—its low rumble threading under the sirens—TK could feel the muttered phrase “danger magnet” orbiting him like a satellite. Relief and dread collided in his chest so hard his oxygen mask puffed white with the exhale.
He watched Carlos swing the door shut and stride over in jeans and a soft gray t-shirt, off-shift but moving with that careful, alert tension he never shed. TK’s brain, still buzzing, cataloged everything small: the ring of keys clipped to Carlos’s belt loop, the damp curl at his temple from a quick sink wash, the way his eyes swept the block before locking on TK like a magnet finding north.
Carlos went to Tommy first, because of course he did.
TK watched them through the mask fogging with every breath. Tommy spoke low, her hand slicing once toward the house and then angling back at TK. Carlos’s mouth pressed flat. He nodded once.
TK’s stomach dropped. He wanted to tug the mask down and explain—the pantry, the thin smoke, the map of the kitchen living behind his eyelids—but the elastic dug into his hair, and Nancy had set the flow high enough that the reservoir bag stayed full. Be good. Breathe. Don’t make this worse.
When Carlos turned toward him, TK braced for the soft smile and the steadying hand that always found his elbow or hip like a compass.
Neither came.
Carlos stopped in front of him and just looked—really looked—eyes sweeping TK’s face the way he’d sweep a scene, counting breaths, checking color, cataloguing the scrape at his wrist and the singe along his hairline.
TK’s heart thudded hard enough to shake the mask. I’m okay. I’m okay. Tell him you’re okay.
He reached to pull the mask aside.
Carlos caught TK’s hand gently and guided it back down. “Leave it,” he murmured, voice a thread only for TK.
Then, in one careful, public gesture that said I love you and also we will talk later, Carlos leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to TK’s soot-gritty forehead, precisely where the skin wasn’t raw.
“I’ve got him,” Carlos told Tommy and Nancy.
Nancy squeezed TK’s shoulder. “Vitals look better. Keep the mask for five more, then he’s yours.” She was already dialing the flow down.
Tommy stepped in, met Carlos’s eyes, then TK’s. “Strand is out for three days to recover. No argument.”
TK’s stomach dipped, but he nodded immediately. “Yes, Cap. I messed up.”
Tommy gave a single, satisfied nod. “Good. Hydrate, rest, and let him take you home.”
Five minutes stretched forever. TK fixed on small anchors to keep from babbling apologies: the steady hiss of oxygen, the weight of Carlos’s palm ghost-light on his shoulder, the smell of smoke thinning under the clean bite of medical plastic, the surety in Carlos’s posture that made TK feel both very safe and very stupid.
Nancy tapped the mask. “Okay, off.”
Carlos eased the elastic away himself, like taking off something fragile. Cool air hit TK’s face; guilt rushed in behind it.
“I’m okay,” TK said too fast. “They were already ventilating the space and—”
“Later,” Carlos said, quiet and even—more like a lid placed gently on a boiling pot than a scold.
He slipped an arm under TK’s and lifted him without jostling the bandaged wrist. Together they walked to the curb where the Camaro idled.
TK clocked familiar details through a haze: sun-warmed metal, the faint citrus-and-cedar of Carlos’s cologne, the soft thump of the passenger door opening.
Carlos steadied him into the seat, buckled the belt with careful fingers, cracked the window for fresh air, and set a cold water bottle in the cup holder. Every gesture said I am angry, but I am not letting go.
The drive started in a hush broken only by the engine and the faint ping of cooling metal from somewhere behind them. Carlos didn’t turn on the radio.
TK watched Carlos’s profile in passing reflections—the set jaw, the muscle ticking there, the way his hands held ten and two—and tried to line his thoughts up in a way that wouldn’t make anything worse. I heard a kid. I mapped the room. I reacted like a firefighter, not like Tommy’s medic. I scared you. I’m sorry.
The neighborhoods blurred: hoses snaking across asphalt in the rearview, then ordinary trees, mailboxes, a woman walking a dog that had no idea anyone’s world had tilted.
TK cleared his throat. “Babe… please say something.”
Carlos’s fingers tightened once on the wheel. He kept his eyes on the road. “Not now, TK.”
TK nodded, throat tight, and turned his face toward the cracked window. The Camaro carried them through the quiet, and he counted his breaths, letting the silence say what he knew was true: he was loved, and he had scared the person who loved him most.
They pulled up to the townhouse, the place they’d made soft and ordinary—shoes piled by the door, a plant TK kept forgetting to water, Carlos’s coffee setup turning their mornings into ritual.
Inside, Carlos hung his keys on the hook. He spoke without looking, voice calm in a way that made TK want to cry. “Shower. Lukewarm. Ten minutes max. Don’t scrub your face—pat it. I’ll get the first aid kit.”
TK’s throat tightened. The matter-of-fact care slid under his ribs and made space where everything had been tight and smoky. He nodded and did as told. In the bathroom he stood under a barely-warm stream, letting the soot ribbon away. He kept thinking about the boy’s cough, about Tommy’s eyes, about the way Carlos’s kiss had landed exactly where he wasn’t burned. He didn’t look in the mirror. He didn’t trust what he’d see—raw skin, yes, but also the thing he was most ashamed of: that crackle in his chest that still wanted to go first through the door.
When he padded out in clean sweats, the living room was quiet. Afternoon light cut the room into gentle stripes. On the coffee table sat their small, very normal first aid kit—plastic case with a cracked hinge—flipped open beside a cereal bowl of cool water and a clean washcloth. Inside the kit: gauze pads, a roll of tape, a few bandages, a little tube of antibiotic ointment, two pairs of nitrile gloves, alcohol wipes set deliberately off to the side. A bottle of saline from the bathroom stood like a sentinel. Next to it: two glasses of water beading cold and a small plate of cut-up apple TK hadn’t even known he could want.
Carlos, already gloved, motioned to the couch. “Sit.”
TK obeyed and sank into the cushion. His heart was beating too fast again, not from smoke, but from the way Carlos was moving—steady, competent, gentle, like TK was the only scene worth processing tonight. For a stupid second, TK felt unworthy of it. He was used to Owen’s brand of practical care, to his mom’s soft hands and efficient New York nurse voice. But this—Carlos in a gray t-shirt kneeling on their rug, eyes soft and worried—felt like the first time someone who wasn’t family had decided he was theirs to tend. The thought blew through him like clean air.
Carlos knelt in front of him and braced one hand on the cushion near TK’s hip so he wouldn’t pull on his skin. With the other, he wrung the washcloth out until it didn’t drip and touched it to TK’s temple like he was approaching a skittish animal.
“This okay?” Carlos asked, eyes flicking up.
“Yeah,” TK said, and even he could hear how small it sounded.
Carlos dabbed, not wiped, drawing the soot away in patient crescents. “Tell me if anything burns too sharp. We’ll cool it again.” He worked around the angry patch at TK’s hairline, breath catching when TK flinched. “Sorry. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” TK murmured. The cool cloth was heaven. Carlos’s glove brushed his hair back and TK had to close his eyes for a second because the touch was so careful it felt like a promise. He focused on the little things that grounded him: the cotton against his skin, the faint citrus of Carlos’s soap, the quiet of their home that had no sirens in it.
Carlos tipped his head to get a better angle, then reached for the saline. “Quick rinse,” he warned. “Close your eyes.”
TK did, feeling the gentle, steady stream chase grit out of the tender places. He let his shoulders drop an inch. He had spent so much of his life white-knuckling through pain, through want, through fear. Being allowed to sink against the couch while someone else handled it felt dangerous in a different way—like he might melt into it and never be able to stand up again.
“Any dizziness?” Carlos asked, watching his face. “Headache? Throat?”
“Sting more than pain,” TK said. “Scratchy throat but it’s… better.” He swallowed. “No spinning. Promise.”
Carlos nodded, relief a quick flash in his eyes. He glanced at his watch and counted under his breath, eyes on TK’s chest as it rose and fell. “Breathing looks even. Color’s better,” he said softly, more to the air than to TK, as if reassuring himself. He slid a folded cool cloth into TK’s palm. “Hold this here—ten minutes.”
TK pressed it against the worst burn at his temple. Carlos checked the scrape along his wrist next. He didn’t yank the gauze off like TK would have; he teased the edge of the makeshift bandage free with slow patience so it wouldn’t pull skin.
“Looks superficial,” Carlos murmured. He tipped a little saline over it, then patted around the area with the corner of the cloth, careful never to drag. “No alcohol on this.”
“I know,” TK said automatically, then flushed. “Sorry. Habit.”
Carlos’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “I like that you know. Still not using it.” He squeezed a pea of antibiotic ointment onto a Q-tip and painted the thinnest layer over the scrape so his big fingers wouldn’t have to touch raw skin, then laid a small nonstick pad over it and secured it with tape—neat lines, not too tight. He checked capillary refill at TK’s fingertips, pressing and letting pink bloom back, a tiny, cop-turned-first-aider checklist that made TK want to laugh and cry at the same time.
“Any tingling?” Carlos asked.
“Just… me,” TK admitted. “I’m a little—” He exhaled. “Shaky.”
Carlos peeled the gloves off without snapping them, tossed them into the little trash bag he’d set by his knee, and replaced them with clean hands that were warm and sure. He cupped the uninjured side of TK’s face, thumb sweeping once under his eye.
“I’ve got you,” he said, simple as gravity.
TK’s chest went loose. He deserved this, didn’t he? He had spent years telling himself he could handle anything alone. He had survived on stubbornness and protocols and the occasional Strand family triage. But Carlos’s touch—steady, uncomplicated—was the first thing all day that made the buzzing in his bones go quiet. He let himself lean into it half an inch.
Carlos stood, disappearing into the kitchen. Cabinet doors opened. A drawer slid. The clink of a mug. Water on, water off. The tiny knock of a knife against a board. TK stared at the ceiling and breathed with the cool cloth, thinking about how love could look like an oxygen mask held in place when your hands shook too much to do it yourself.
When Carlos came back he had ibuprofen, a mug of warm water with a squeeze of lemon, and the plate of apple. He set them on the coffee table and crouched again.
“Two now,” he said, tapping the ibuprofen from the bottle into his palm and dropping them in TK’s. “Eat a couple bites first so it won’t hit your stomach hard.”
TK obeyed. The apple was crisp and cold and tasted like something clean. “Thank you,” he said, the words too small for what he meant.
Carlos nodded, finally meeting his eyes. There it was—the fracture line of fear behind the anger, running deep and honest. He slid his phone closer and set a quiet timer for the compress. The minutes stretched and TK counted the breaths between the soft beeps of the refrigerator in the kitchen, letting his nervous system learn the rhythm of home again.
They ate in a quiet that wasn’t hostile, just delicate. Carlos sat on the rug instead of the opposite cushion, close enough that TK could rest a bare foot against his thigh and feel the warmth through the worn cotton of his jeans. Every few minutes Carlos would glance up, a silent are you still with me? TK would nod, a silent I’m here.
Halfway through the soup and grilled cheese Carlos had set out—sick-day lunch magic TK didn’t realize he needed until the first spoonful loosened his throat—TK tried again.
“I’m really sorry, baby,” he said, voice low and rough. “I just—”
Carlos set his spoon down and folded his forearms on the coffee table so he could meet TK where he was. “I know,” he said gently. “I know you have the biggest heart—which I love and admire—but I just wish you would take care of yourself more.”
The softness in his voice made TK’s eyes sting harder than any reprimand. He set the bowl aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I heard the kid. The floor plan—there was a pantry off the kitchen. The smoke was thinner there. I thought I could get there fast enough. I wasn’t thinking like your paramedic. I was thinking like the idiot firefighter who thinks he’s fireproof.”
A fleeting, impossible smile tugged at Carlos’s mouth and vanished. “You’re not an idiot,” he said. “You’re brave. And that bravery saves people.” His fingers pressed, once, against TK’s knee. “But I need you to understand something.”
He glanced at the bandage on TK’s wrist, then back up. “I drove up today and someone told me you went inside with no gear. Do you know what my body did? It stopped. Like someone pulled the plug. I couldn’t get air.” He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “I pictured the rest of my life, and you weren’t in it.”
TK shut his eyes. The words landed like a hand on his sternum, steadying and devastating at once. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Please don’t.”
“Then don’t make me,” Carlos said, not unkindly. He leaned closer, forearms braced on his thighs, anguish honest. “You’re someone’s son. Someone’s partner. You are mine. And today you decided the rules didn’t apply to you. It worked out. The next time it might not.”
“I know,” TK said quickly. “I know, and I’m sorry. I’m not used to waiting—standing by with the bag and the monitor and trusting other people to go in. I heard him, and my feet just… moved.” He made himself hold Carlos’s gaze. “It won’t happen again. I swear. I’ll slow down. I’ll remember I’m not on a line anymore.”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Tommy’s going to bench me for a week.”
“Good,” Carlos said, blunt, and when TK flinched, Carlos reached across and touched the uninjured side of his face again, thumb stroking once beneath his eye, apology and insistence in the same motion.
“I’m not going to pretend I know your job better than you,” Carlos said quietly. “I don’t. But I know what it’s like to clear a house with your heart pounding so loud you can’t hear your own name. I know what it’s like to decide in a breath. You told me once you’d rather break your own ribs doing compressions than stand back and count. I get it.” His voice thinned and steadied again. “But I need you to want your life more than you want to be first through smoke.”
The way he said want your life sounded like prayer. TK felt something in him unclench, like a door he kept barricaded had been opened by someone else’s hand.
“Okay,” TK said, small but steady. “Okay.”
“Say it the way you’d say it on scene,” Carlos murmured, because of course the officer wanted the words.
TK’s mouth twitched despite everything. “I will not enter a burning structure without proper gear. I will call it in. I will trust the team. I will not add a victim.”
Carlos’s shoulders eased. “Thank you.”
TK exhaled and winced as the skin at his temple pulled.
Carlos was already moving, already reaching for the bowl and the cool cloth. “One more minute,” he said, smiling this time, soft and real. He dabbed and smoothed, taped a fresh bit of gauze with neat corners, then rested his palm—bare now, warm—against TK’s sternum for a heartbeat, like he was confirming a fact.
“There you are,” he whispered.
TK covered Carlos’s hand with both of his and, for the first time all day, believed it.
The rest of the afternoon hung on soft tasks. Carlos put on a nature documentary for background—muted, closed captions on—then moved around the living room with a kind of restless gentleness, folding the throw blanket at TK’s feet, straightening the stack of coasters, opening the window a crack to let in cooler air. TK watched him from the couch, the cool compress balanced against his temple, and felt the strange, steadying hum of being looked after by someone who was still upset but refused to be anything but kind.
He refilled TK’s water before the glass got low. “Small sips,” he said, setting the glass in TK’s hand and brushing his knuckles without thinking. “You’ll feel better if you keep up with fluids.”
TK nodded, drinking because Carlos asked him to and because it gave his hands something to do besides twist the hem of his sweatshirt. His brain kept trying to replay the scene—the cough, the heat, Tommy’s eyes—and every time it started to spool up, Carlos moved through his periphery again, grounding him with some small act: tucking the edge of the compress back under the bandage so it wouldn’t slip, nudging TK’s socked feet onto a cushion to keep him from sitting too rigid, sliding a bowl of apple slices closer like it was the most normal thing in the world.
When TK tried to stand and help with the dishes, Carlos was there ahead of him, palm at his chest—flat, warm, immovable. “Sit. I’ve got it.”
“You’re still mad at me,” TK said, not a question, the words quiet and a little hoarse. The admission landed somewhere between apology and plea.
“I’m still scared,” Carlos corrected, eyes meeting his. “The mad is just the suit the fear wears so it can get through the day.”
The line hit TK like fresh air. He eased back into the cushion, eyes prickling. “I’m scared, too,” he said, even softer. “Of… how easy it was to go.”
Carlos’s jaw worked once, then he nodded, as if the truth had loosened something he’d been holding shut. “I know.”
Something released between them with the honesty of it. Carlos took the empty plate to the sink and ran the tap; TK listened to the water and thought about how this—quiet, ordinary care—wasn’t something he’d ever asked for and wasn’t sure he deserved, but he wanted to learn how to accept it without flinching.
Owen called near dusk. TK answered in the hallway, leaning his shoulder against the wall like a kid caught sneaking out past curfew.
“Are you breathing, kiddo?” Owen asked, Captain voice wrapped in Dad.
“I am,” TK said. “Mask, fluids, the whole lecture. Tommy benched me for three days to recover. I’m sorry, Dad.”
A sigh came down the line, all relief and exasperation. “Good. Use those three days to rest and think. You’ll make it up to your captain when you’re back on shift. Tonight, let your boyfriend take care of you.”
TK’s mouth tipped despite himself. “I’m trying.”
“I can tell,” Owen said, softer now. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” TK hung up and took a breath that didn’t taste like smoke.
When he came back, Carlos was plating leftovers—roasted chicken, warm rice, and the good pickles TK liked—moving with that calm, deliberate efficiency that always made TK feel safer than any siren could. He set the plate on the coffee table and glanced up.
“You don’t have to—” TK started, guilt sparking, old habits itching to prove he didn’t need fussing.
“I know,” Carlos said, already reaching for utensils. “I want to.”
He bent and pressed a kiss to the top of TK’s head—light, exact, careful to avoid the bandage. The attention to detail made TK’s chest go warm and loose. He didn’t remember the last time anyone had taken care of him like this who wasn’t named Strand. He didn’t know how to want it and feel worthy of it at the same time. But he could try to say thank you with how still he sat, how he let himself be easy to care for.
They ate at the coffee table with their knees touching, the documentary throwing flickers of green across the wall. The food was simple and perfect. TK felt the rice anchor his stomach and the chicken bring him back into his own body.
“I keep thinking about the pantry,” TK said after a while, voice low, testing the quiet to see if it could hold the weight. “There was this… pocket where the air wasn’t moving as much. I heard him cough and everything else just… narrowed.”
Carlos’s thumb traced an absent line along TK’s kneecap, the touch so gentle it made TK’s eyes sting again. “When Tommy said your name on the phone,” Carlos said, “everything narrowed for me, too. It went so small I couldn’t see around it.”
TK swallowed. “I hate that I did that to you.”
“I hate that something could take you from me,” Carlos answered. “But I love that you’re here.” He nudged the pickle jar toward TK because he knew TK would forget to reach for it when he was sad. “Eat another one.”
TK did, and the briny snap shocked him into a small laugh. The sound seemed to rearrange the furniture inside his chest. They kept talking, not picking the scab, just naming small truths until they built the bridge back plank by plank. Carlos refilled TK’s water one more time; TK stole a piece of chicken off Carlos’s plate because that was how you told someone you were home.
Night pressed against the windows. Carlos dimmed the lights and tugged TK gently toward the bedroom.
“Hold up,” he said, and swapped out the pillowcase for a fresh one, smoothing it flat with his palm. “Cool cotton feels better.”
TK slid in and hissed once when the bandage tugged, then relaxed as the pillow really did feel better—cool, clean, kind. Carlos lay behind him, a protective curve around his spine, and pulled the blanket up over both of them. TK tucked Carlos’s hand against his chest, over his heart, and felt his own pulse steady under Carlos’s palm.
“I’m sorry,” TK whispered to the dark, the words no longer scrambling, just honest.
“I know,” Carlos said, mouth near the back of TK’s neck, breath warm. “I know your heart. I just need you to keep it beating.”
TK nodded and, because a promise needs more than words, laced their fingers together. He counted their breaths until both of them slipped into sleep.
In the morning, he wouldn’t head to the station—Tommy had him off for three days to recover. He'd sent her a clear, no-excuses apology and will use the downtime to rest, hydrate, and tend the burns . When those three days were up, he’d walk into the 126 with his chin up, apologize to Tommy again, and sit bench without protest. He’d pick up extra training, drill the protocols until they were muscle deep.
But tonight, in the small, ordinary safety they’d made, he let himself be the person someone loved enough to be scared for. And Carlos, still angry in the smallest, most human way, still petting TK’s hair back from his forehead, loved him the exact way fear asked him to: not less, never less—just closer.