Page 36 of Breaking Through

"Seeing the beauty in imperfection and understanding that you can't rush some things." I squeezed his hand. "Being brave enough to let people be who they are, even when it hurts to watch them struggle."

"Now that," Grandpa smiled, "sounds like a restoration worth undertaking."

Maybe love was less about having answers and more about having courage—the courage to stick around and let people heal in their way at their own pace.

I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Wade:

Thank you for teaching me how to sit with the storm.

Thank you for staying even when you can't fix the rain.

Chapter twelve

Wade

The screams weren't the worst part. They never were. It was the silence that followed—that moment when the warehouse's support beams gave their final groan and the radio static swallowed the last desperate calls for backup. In my dreams, that silence stretched like a rubber band, ready to snap.

Tonight was different. Tonight, I heard the click of a camera shutter.

The dream flames parted like a curtain, and there was Holden, his Polaroid raised to capture the perfect shot of my failure. He smiled that gentle sunrise smile, completely unafraid, even as smoldering debris rained down around him. "The light's amazing, Wade." He adjusted his focus. Look how it catches the smoke."

I tried to shout and warn him about the ceiling's imminent collapse, but my voice disappeared into the roar of the inferno. Impenetrable heat filled the air between us, distorting his image like a mirage. His camera kept clicking, documenting everything, while the chalk-white support beams above him developed hairline fractures.

Just before I jolted awake, I saw his final shot develop—a perfect capture of my face as I failed to reach him in time.

My bedroom air was thick as soup in my lungs. Sweat plastered my shirt to my chest, but I couldn't stop shivering. My hands shook as I fumbled for the bedside lamp, knocking over a stack of field guides. They hit the floor with dull thuds that sounded too much like the falling debris in my dreams.

3:23 AM. The clock's crimson numbers pulsed in the darkness like emergency lights.

An owl called from somewhere in the pines, its cry morphing into an echo of the messages in the radio static:"Engine 51, what's your status?Engine 51, respond."

I picked up my phone and saw a text from Holden:

Found more of Gran's notes about the murals. Bringing coffee and those maple scones you pretend not to like. See you at 8?

The timestamp showed he'd sent it yesterday morning. I hadn't answered, just like I hadn't answered the three messages before or shown up for what had become usual morning coffee meetups. It was a familiar pattern—withdrawal, isolation, and the careful construction of new walls, brick by brick. It was easier than watching the light fade from his eyes when he finally realized how broken I really was.

Chief Matthews' email about the memorial service sat unopened in my inbox. It was like a splinter under my skin. Barely over two weeks now. Two weeks until I had to face everything I'd run from—the department brass with their rehearsed speeches, the families of the ones we'd lost, and thepitying looks from former colleagues who'd moved on while I was still trapped in that burning building.

I couldn't drag Holden into that darkness. He deserved better than a scarred ranger who woke up screaming and couldn't even look at his own reflection some mornings.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was Tom:

Stop brooding and answer the kid's texts. He brought donuts to the station again. Maya's going to kill you if she gains any more weight.

I switched the phone off and headed for the shower. The water scalded my skin, but it couldn't wash away the image of Holden reaching for me through the flames, still believing I could save him when I couldn't even save myself.

The next three days passed in a blur of extra patrols and paperwork. I volunteered for the most remote trails and took the early shifts nobody wanted. I was doing anything to avoid the moments when Holden might appear.

It worked until it didn't.

"Alright, that's enough." Tom's voice filled my office doorway on the fourth morning. I looked up from a stack of incident reports to find him blocking my escape route; arms crossed over his chest. "You're being ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? How?" I kept my eyes on the papers, but the typed words blurred together.

"Trying to convince yourself you're protecting someone by pushing them away makes no sense. You know that." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He ominously pushed the latch, locking us in. "He's a good kid. Treat him with some respect."

"I don't know what you're—"

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