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ramp-it-up · 9 hours ago

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I'm On Fire

Summary: He tried to keep his distance. You tried to keep your composure. Neither of you succeeded. And now the line between duty and wanting you is burning away.

Word count: 4.7 K

Pairing: Firefighter! Bucky Barnes x Principal! Reader; The crew x Reader (mostly platonic, except Ari)

A/N: So this new AU. It's the death of me. And @nissaimmortal asked when part one was published just a few days ago so, because I'm obsessed and I have so much to say about them, here is part two. I'm all in with stubborn, angsty, grumpy, burning-for-you firefighter Bucky Barnes. 🫠 This was inspired by an abandoned AU from last year and then this ask from a few weeks ago. I can't get him out of my mind. Bucky is a firefighter and a burn survivor. Tell me how you feel by reblogging, commenting, sending asks, dm'ing and the like. Interaction is life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. This fic/au deals with fires, burns, burn survivors and recovery. There are graphic descriptions of burns and pain. Bucky and Reader are burn survivors. Grumpy Bucky, burn injury and rehab recovery, reader has to rely on other people, a lil bit of language, mutual pining, idiots in love, Steve, Ari, and Syverson are also firefighters (warning, esp. Ari!) erotic dream, protective Bucky, jealous Bucky, hurt/comfort, dom Bucky if you squint, erotic dreams and fantasies (I feel like suspenders are gonna be a thing), implied masturbation. ALL THE ANGST!

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

You were propped on the couch, leg elevated, trying to read through an email you’d already started four times.

Your concentration was shot.

The burn on your leg throbbed, the skin pulling tight whenever you shifted. You were looking forward to PT, and thinking, more than you wanted to admit, about the handsome firefighter who’d carried you out of the flames.

It would be hard to forget Fire Lieutenant James Barnes.

And you'd tried over the past three days.

He was kind to visit you in the hospital and help you get settled at Amyra’s. The memory of his rough, but gentle hands changing your bandages, and the way he looked at you like you were worth saving, was etched into your mind.

Thankfully, now you had time to forget him.

Amyra stood in the kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear, voice low.

“No, I’m serious,” she was saying. “She knows she can’t drive. She’s being stubborn.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your lips together, wondering who she was talking to.

Don’t eavesdrop, you told yourself. You’d already asked enough of everyone.

But you didn’t have to try hard to hear when she switched it to speaker.

“…I can take her,” Bucky’s voice came out, rough and unmistakable.

“Every day?” Amyra asked. “You’ve got to work, too.”

“I’m off rotation for the next week. After that, the guys will take shifts.”

“Which guys?”

You turned your head just in time to hear another voice in the background, warm and amused.

“Yeah, Amyra, we’ll take turns,” Steve said. ��I can take the week after Buck, Levinson can do some days along with Sy. We got you.”

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath, mortified.

Amyra ignored you.

“She’s going to hate this.”

“She doesn’t get a say,” Bucky replied, no hesitation at all.

You scoffed and Amyra smiled faintly.

“You’re on speaker. She can hear you.”

There was silence. Then Bucky’s voice again.

“You’re not driving,” he said. “End of discussion.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, hating how petty you sounded.

“No, you’re not,” he said calmly. “Call it community service.”

Your stomach dipped. Amyra raised her brows at you, like she could read your every thought.

Another voice chimed in, Levinson this time, all lazy drawl, “I’ll bring coffee, Sweetheart.”

Syverson laughed in the background, “And I’ll bring flowers. Make it a real date.”

“Oh my god!,” you hissed, scrubbing a hand over your face.

Amyra bit back a smile as Bucky growled out, “Ignore them.”

“Barnes,” you ground out, “you don’t have to…”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted, voice softer now. “I’m doing it anyway.”

You swallowed hard.

“Tomorrow,” he said, all finality. “Nine sharp.”

The call ended, leaving the room too quiet. Amyra slipped her phone into her pocket.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice gentle.

You didn’t say anything. Just pressed your lips together and looked at the wall. Amyra caught the look on your face and sighed.

“You don’t have to like it,” she said gently. “You just have to let people help you.”

You couldn’t answer, so you just nodded, a lump in your throat.

—---

You were waiting on the porch when his truck pulled up, because you couldn’t stand the thought of him ringing the bell and Amyra answering with that knowing smile.

He stepped out, and for a second, neither of you spoke. He looked unfairly good in a black t-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a shower.

His gaze swept over you, from your braced leg to the bag slung over your shoulder, like he was trying to gauge exactly how much you were holding back.

“You need help?” he asked quietly.

“No,” you said, a little too fast.

His eyes flicked down your body, over your leg, back up to your face. It affected you.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can see that.”

You made it down the steps without stumbling. But when you stopped at his passenger side, you hesitated. The truck sat too high, the step too awkward to get to with your leg. You braced your hand on the door frame, willing yourself to ignore the tightness in your leg.

Then you felt it, his palm, warm and wide, settling on your waist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle. “Let me.”

“I can…”

“You can let me,” he cut in, and there was something in the way he said it that made your heart stutter.

Before you could protest, he bent and lifted you, one arm under your knees, the other bracing your back.

You couldn’t help it, your hands flew to his shoulders, clutching the thick stretch of muscle there. He smelled like clean soap and faint smoke, and it made something behind your ribs ache.

He set you carefully on the seat, one big hand lingering on your knee longer than it needed to. When he stepped back, he didn’t look away.

“You good?” he asked, voice lower.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He nodded once and closed the door.

—----

The cab was too quiet.

You stared out the window, pretending to be fascinated by the city streets you’d driven a hundred times.

Halfway there, you finally spoke.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice small.

He didn’t look over.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

He blew out a slow breath.

“Because you almost died,” he said, his voice rough.

“And you think you have to do everything by yourself.”

You looked back at the window because you couldn’t look at him and still pretend you were okay.

“That doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

“It’s not about owing.”

“Then what is it about?”

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his grip.

“Call it paying it forward,” he said after a moment.

Your chest went tight.

Community service.

Paying it forward.

You were a charity case to him. A lump formed in your throat and you turned back to the window so he couldn’t see your face.

You rode the rest of the way in silence.

———

He helped you down again, and when you tried to protest, “I can walk, Lieutenant,” he ignored it, bracing his hand on your elbow and keeping it there until you were steady.

Your therapist was kind but unrelenting. By the end, your muscles were shaking, and you were blinking back frustrated tears.

When you were wheeled back out, Bucky was leaning against the reception counter, arms folded, watching the door. His gaze softened when he saw you.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine,” he murmured, but he didn’t push it.

This time you ignored his remark, but when he helped you up, you didn’t pretend you didn’t need it.

—-

The silence was different now, heavier. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you would say.

When he pulled into Amyra’s driveway, Bucky cut the engine but didn’t move to open the door. He sat there for a second, hands on the wheel.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said finally, voice quiet and rough.

“Even if you want to be.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

When you opened them again, he was already out of the truck, reaching for your door. He opened it, and you started to move, attempting to swing your leg down.

He caught your wrist.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

You looked up at him, ready to argue. But something in his face, something resolute and almost raw, stopped you.

And this time, you didn’t fight it.

When he lifted you, your hands came up instinctively, gripping the collar of his t-shirt and your head went against his chest, familiar now. You could feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

And you could also feel the way his breath went unsteady.

Neither of you said a word as he carried you up the walk easily, like it was second nature holding you this way.

When he set you down just inside the door, you didn’t step back right away; your hands were still curled in his shirt and his palms were still braced around your waist.

For a second, you just stood there, breathing the same air. Then you looked away and took a shaky step back.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He swallowed, his voice thick.

“Anytime.”

—-------

You were resettled on the couch, leg propped up, your laptop balanced across your thighs. You’d been typing for an hour, trying to pretend your whole body didn’t feel like a live wire.

You were trying to focus on anything to keep from thinking about the way he’d carried you.

And the way it had felt to let him.

You didn’t hear the door open, and you didn’t realize he was there until his shadow fell across the screen.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Bucky said, scowling as he set the takeout and prescriptions on the coffee table.

Your head snapped up, startled.

“I am.” You gestured at the couch. “Look. Reclining. Very restful.”

His eyes dropped from your face to the laptop.

“Close it.”

“No.”

He stepped closer, and you felt it, how much heat he radiated, how your breath caught even before he spoke again.

“You need to heal,” he said, softer now, like he was trying to be careful.

“I need to work,” you snapped, your voice cracking with exhaustion you couldn’t hide. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

His jaw flexed.

“I’m not telling you because I want to control you,” he said, voice dropping lower, rougher. “I’m telling you because I…”

He stopped, like he’d surprised himself.

“…because working is not resting.”

You stared at him, holding your breath.

He took another step, close enough that you felt dizzy with it.

“And I’m not going to stand here and watch you compromise your recovery."

Then he reached out and closed the laptop. His hand was so big it covered most of it. You watched his thick fingers press it closed, and watched every option you had for pretending you weren’t thinking about him disappear.

You should have been angry.

But you were just…wrecked.

Your pulse thumped everywhere at once. You sucked in a shaky breath because he was still right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, your mouth would brush his shirt.

“I’m not your responsibility,” you whispered.

His hand stayed braced on the back of the couch, close enough that you felt surrounded.

“Too late,” he said, his voice low and rough, and you felt it right between your legs.

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

For one dizzy second, you thought he might kiss you.

And God, you wanted him to.

—----

You were going to break him.

He knew it in the way you looked up at him, eyes dark and wide and a little dazed. The way your lips parted when he leaned in. The way you didn’t pull back.

He was still trying to convince himself this was just about keeping you safe. Just about duty. But that lie was wearing thin. So thin he could feel it tearing.

God, he was trying.

Trying not to imagine how soft your mouth would feel under his. Or how you’d sound if he pushed you back into the cushions and touched you the way he was already dreaming about.

Trying not to remember the heat that sparked up his spine when your eyes flicked to his mouth.

And stayed.

You shifted in your seat like you were restless, like you were thinking about the same thing he was. That look on your face, combined with the way your thighs pressed together, was going to ruin him.

He left before he did something he’d never be able to take back.

Before he asked you if you were wet for him already.

Because he already knew.

—----

It had been a long day.

Therapy. The impossible ache in your body. Bucky’s presence.

It was all too much.

You fell asleep exhausted, but it didn’t take long for your dreams to slide somewhere you didn’t let yourself think about when you were awake.

In the dream, you were standing in your burned-out bedroom. The walls were blackened, the smell of smoke thick in your throat. But you weren’t afraid, because he was there.

Bucky.

He didn’t have a mask. Didn’t have gear. Didn't have a shirt. Just Bucky, in his uniform pants and suspenders, so hot and so close you could feel the heat coming off his skin.

He reached for you, and when his hand closed around your wrist, and you felt it everywhere.

He kissed you like he’d been starving for it, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low, rough sound. Your hands slid up his arms, over the thick straps of his suspenders, feeling the flex and hard pull of muscle beneath.

When he broke away, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.

“Say you want this,” he whispered, voice frayed.

Your heart skipped a beat. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His hand slid up your ribcage, callused palm grazing the curve of your breast, thumb over your nipple, and your whole body shuddered.

“Say it,” he rasped, and then he kissed you again, so hard it stole every thought you had.

You woke with your hand between your thighs, gasping, your skin flushed and your heart slamming so loud it felt like it might jump out of your chest.

It was just a dream, you told yourself. Just your mind filling in the blanks.

But when you finally drifted back to sleep, you hoped, god, you hoped, you’d dream of him again.

—----

Amyra was stirring creamer into her coffee when you walked in the kitchen, face still flushed.

She didn’t look up at first.

“You okay?” she asked lightly, though there was something too knowing in her voice.

You cleared your throat. “Fine.”

“Mhm.” She set the spoon down, turning just enough to smirk.

“Because it sounded like you were having a pretty good time last night.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh my god.”

“Calling Bucky’s name.”

She tapped her finger on her mug.

“Interesting.”

“It’s not…” Your voice cracked.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Sure.” She folded her arms, clearly savoring every second.

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s common,” you blurted.“To, um. Have dreams about people who are…supportive. It’s just a psychological thing. He’s just …”

“A friend?”

“Yes,” you said too fast. “Just a friend.”

Amyra lifted her brows.

“Uh-huh.”

And when she turned back to the sink, you closed your eyes, because you both knew that wasn’t true.

“It was just a dream,” you mumbled, though the way your heart was still racing said it wasn’t that simple.

-----

Every night that week, Bucky lay in his too-big bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, cursing himself for wanting you this much.

He tried to tell himself it was just about protecting you.

About doing the right thing.

But in the dark, when he closed his eyes, he would remember exactly how you’d looked that day, your eyes soft, your hands curled in his shirt like you were scared to let go when he carried you.

And then he’d imagine what it would feel like if you didn’t let him go.

If you pulled him closer.

If you said his name in that voice that made him feel like he’d won the goddamn world.

More than once, he’d slid his hand into his boxers, pressing his palm over the thick, aching weight of himself while he thought about your mouth, your body, the way you’d sound when you came for him.

Sometimes, when he was too far gone to stop, he’d let himself imagine more.

Your legs wrapped around his hips. Your nails biting into his back. Your lips parting to tell him he was the only one you wanted.

It was torture.

But it was the only place he could have you. Because he had a duty to help you, not take advantage of you.

And every morning, he’d wake up with your name on his tongue, the sheets a mess around him, and the hollow ache in his chest worse than before.

Because he knew, no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to be able to want you any less.

—-----

The rest of the week continued in much the same fashion, both of you torturing yourselves internally while being painfully polite on the surface.

Except when he kept carrying you into the truck and into Amyra’s house.

And except when you caught each other staring and pretended not to.

On Friday, you’d tried to reclaim a shred of your pride, insisting you could manage the stairs alone.

Bucky just looked at you, unimpressed, before lifting you into his arms anyway.

And god help you, you didn’t protest.

The weekend was supposed to be a break. You’d told Bucky, more firmly this time, that he deserved to relax, that you’d leave him alone.

He went quiet, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.

“I didn’t ask for that,” he said finally, voice low.

But he backed off, and both of you spent two days trying not to replay every look, every touch, every dream.

You didn’t quite succeed.

—--

Monday morning, you tried to look forward to Steve taking you to therapy. It was his week and he was always so kind.

But when the doorbell finally rang, it wasn’t him.

It was Ari Levinson, leaning against the porch rail with two coffees in hand and an easy smile.

“Morning, Principal,” he called, voice warm and amused.

You blinked. “Where’s Steve?”

Ari shrugged, like it didn’t matter as he handed you a cup.

“Had an important meeting. I volunteered to cover.”

You swallowed, feeling something you didn’t want to name.

Ari walked you to the passenger side. He wasn’t as big as Bucky, but he was still tall with lean muscle, long legs and casual confidence that made your pulse skip.

“Need a hand?” he asked, one brow lifted.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning wider. “I can see that.”

When you hesitated, his hand came out, warm and steady on your elbow.

“Easy,” he murmured, guiding you up.

Once you were settled, he leaned in the open door, bracing a forearm on the roof so you had no choice but to look at him.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping, “some people would’ve stayed home and let everyone wait on them.”

You lifted your chin. “I’m not most people.”

His gaze flicked to your mouth.

No,” he agreed. “And I’m very aware of that.”

Your heart thumped as he shut the door and walked around slipping into the driver’s seat.

—--

The silence wasn’t as charged as it was with Bucky, it was just there, with no subtext.

For you, at least.

“Your boyfriend’s very protective,” Ari said eventually, voice casual.

Your stomach tightened because you knew exactly who he was talking about.

Bucky.

“He’s not…”

Ari’s mouth curved slyly. “No?”

“Not my boyfriend,” you finished, too fast.

He hummed, tapping the wheel with two fingers. “Huh.”

“What?” you demanded.

His grin flashed, bright and just a little dangerous.

“Then you should let me take you out sometime.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, because your brain had apparently short-circuited.

Ari glanced over, amused.

“Just think about it. Couldn’t hurt. I admire you. And I think you’re very attractive.” he drawled, eyes sliding over you, like it was no big deal at all.

Your heart thumped so hard it hurt.

And maybe it was easier to let someone like Ari see you this way.

Someone you didn’t already dream about.

Someone who hadn’t carried you out of the dark, over and over, until you didn’t know where gratitude ended and something else began.

Because wanting Bucky Barnes felt dangerous. Like if you gave in to it, there wouldn’t be anything left of you he didn’t already have.

But your pulse wouldn’t stop hammering.

—----

That night, Bucky had been finishing paperwork in the station when Ari strolled in, grin lazy, eyes too bright.

“Barnes,” Ari drawled, propping a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Your principal friend, she’s doing a lot better.”

Bucky’s stomach went tight as he tried to stay calm. “Yeah?”

“She looked good,” Ari went on, like he hadn’t noticed the warning in Bucky’s tone.

“Said she was feeling strong enough to drive next week.”

Bucky nodded stiffly.

Ari tilted his head, smile widening.

“She also said you weren’t her man.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut but there was no reason why they should.

He wasn’t your boyfriend.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t let it show.

Ari’s grin sharpened.

“Figured I’d ask. And she didn’t say no when I offered to take her out sometime.”

Bucky’s hands flexed at his sides and his jaw locked so tight it hurt.

“You know,” Ari mused, tapping the doorframe, “it’s not a bad thing, letting someone else step in. Can’t be everywhere all the time, Barnes.”

“Get out,” Bucky said, voice low.

Ari’s grin didn’t fade.

“Sure,” he said lightly. “Just letting you know, you should never leave food on the table.”

When he left, Bucky stood there for a long time, breathing hard.

He knew he had no claim. But the thought of Ari, or anyone else, thinking they could be what you needed made him shake with rage.

—---

When Bucky pulled up to your house, he knew he should’ve called first. Or let Steve take the day like he’d offered.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t stand the thought of you getting close to someone other than him. Smiling at them the way you smiled at him when you were too tired to pretend you didn’t trust him.

He got out and tried to look neutral, tried to look like the professional he was supposed to be. But when you stepped onto the porch, beautiful as ever, proud, that wary look in your eyes, something in his chest twisted up tight.

God help him, he wanted you.

Wanted you in ways that had nothing to do with duty or guilt.

More than he’d wanted anything in a long, long time.

And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending he didn’t.

—-----

You were half-dressed and running late when you heard a familiar engine rumble to a stop out front, and your heart did a stupid little jump.

Steve, you reminded yourself firmly. It’s Steve today.

You grabbed your bag and pulled the door open, only to stop short.

Bucky was leaning against the hood of his truck, arms folded over his chest, black t-shirt clinging to the cut of his broad shoulders.

Your stomach flipped.

“I thought…” you blurted, clutching the strap of your bag.

“I thought Steve was coming.”

“I switched with him,” he said evenly.

You swallowed. “Why?”

His jaw flexed.

“Wanted to see for myself how you were doing.”

Your heart did that annoying skip thing again, and you told yourself it was irritation, not something softer. For a second, neither of you moved. Then he nodded at the steps.

“You need help?”

“I’m fine.”

One brow lifted, skeptical.

You sighed, your voice small. “A little.”

He climbed the porch and set his hand around your waist and you tried not to lean into it.

—---

The ride to therapy was torture.

He kept telling himself he had no right to feel like this. No claim on you.

But he couldn’t stop replaying Ari’s voice in his head: She didn’t say no.

When you finally spoke, your voice was so careful he almost wished you’d just yell at him.

“Ari talked to you?”

His eyes didn’t leave the road.

“Yeah.”

“Bucky…”

He exhaled hard, voice rough.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

And there it was. The thing he shouldn’t have admitted. The thing he couldn’t pretend wasn’t eating him alive.

Your pulse skittered.

“That’s not your problem,” you managed.

His hand flexed on the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s the thing. It is.”

You didn’t dare ask what he meant, and he didn’t offer to explain.

But the air in the cab felt too close, too warm. Like you were both one breath away from admitting something you couldn’t take back.

—--

The drive home felt longer. You watched the trees blur past, all the things you hadn’t said pressing against your throat. When he finally pulled into Amyra’s driveway, you didn’t reach for the door right away.

“Bucky,” you murmured.

He turned to look at you, blue eyes tired, full of things you didn’t have names for.

“I don’t want to make this harder,” you whispered.

His throat worked.

“You’re not,” he said, voice low. “You couldn’t.”

And you knew he believed it. Knew he meant every word.

That was the problem.

He got out without another word and came around to open your door. When he helped you down, his palm fit too perfectly against your waist, the heat of it sinking through your clothes like a brand.

When he handed you your bag, his fingers brushed yours, and you felt it, that sharp, impossible want you’d been pretending wasn’t there.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

His gaze flicked to your mouth, then away.

“No problem,” he said roughly.

He stepped back and waited until you’d made it up the porch before he climbed into the truck and pulled away. You watched the taillights until they disappeared.

And you felt emptier than you wanted to admit.

—---

Amyra was standing in the kitchen when you came in, your face hot. She took one look at you and folded her arms across her chest.

“You look like you just got back from a funeral,” she said mildly.

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“That’s your favorite lie,” she shot back. “How’d it go?”

“Fine.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Fine, or fine?”

You shot her a look.

“Don’t do that,” she said, voice gentler. “Don’t act like I can’t tell when something’s wrong.”

“I’m good,” you lied, voice shaky.

Amyra tilted her head, studying you.

“You know,” she said quietly, “if you don’t want him to care, you’ve got to stop looking at him like that.”

“Like what?” you demanded.

“Like he’s the only thing keeping you standing.”

You sighed. “We’re just…”

“If you say friends,” she cut in, “I’m throwing this mug at you.”

You looked down at the floor, because you couldn’t look at her and pretend you believed it.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, because you didn’t have anything else, and she let you walk past her to your room without another word.

—---

You were sitting in bed with the lamp off when your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Steve will take you tomorrow.

Your chest went tight as you stared at the message. He wasn’t coming. He was pulling away.

You: Why?

A long pause. Three dots blinked, disappeared.

Bucky: I’ve got a thing.

Nothing else.

You turned your phone over on the nightstand, your pulse too loud in your ears.

And you wondered if this was the part where you were supposed to let him go.

—--

When Bucky climbed back into his truck, he felt like his chest was too small for how hard his heart was beating.

You’d looked at him like you were waiting for something, like you needed him to finish a sentence he didn’t have the courage to say.

It is my problem.

Because I can’t stand the thought of you with anyone else.

Because he can't have you.

Because I’m in love with you.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to get his breathing under control.

He knew he was making this worse. Every time he touched you, every time he picked you up, every time he let himself feel it, he was building something that would hurt you when it fell apart.

Because it had to.

Because you deserved better than a half-broken firefighter who didn’t know how to keep things simple.

By the time he made it back to the station, he’d decided the only thing he could do, the only thing that might save you from the mess he’d already made, was to step back.

Just enough to give you space to breathe.

Just enough to give himself a chance to get his shit together.

When he finally texted you, he tried to pretend it didn’t feel like cutting something vital out of his own chest.

When you wrote back “Why?” he almost called you.

Almost drove back across town to take it back.

But instead he forced himself to type.

I’ve got a thing.

And then he set his phone down, bowed his head and told himself this was the right thing.

He had to believe it.

Because if he didn’t, he was going to show up at your door and tell you the truth: That you were the only thing he’d thought about since the night he carried you out of that fire.

And he didn’t think he could ever stop.

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