Page 117 of Rescuing Ember

A hollow emptiness settles in my chest.

What now?

The thought circles heavy and relentless. I want to go home—to my tiny, dilapidated apartment where everything is familiar, where I can wrap myself in solitude and pretend. Still, the idea feels strange, disconnected from the chaos of the last few hours.

I don’t know whatnormalmeans anymore.

Then there’s the part of me afraid to say goodbye to Blaze. We’ve known each other only a matter of days, yet he already feels like a constant in my life.

“What are you thinking about, love?” Blaze looks at me, eyes filled with exhaustion. His voice is softer now, concern etched into his features. “I see trouble in your expression.”

I swallow, trying to push back the unease, but it lingers. It’s time to leave him behind. The thought sits heavily in my chest, feeling wrong somehow.

This can’t be it.

Can it?

I shrug, forcing a bit of nonchalance into my voice. “They said I could go, so… I guess I’m just gonna go—home.” My voice cracks at the end, and I hate how weak I sound.

“I’m coming with you.” He surges to his feet, and something within me breaks a little.

Doc Summers strides over, catching Blaze before he can take a step. “You’re not going anywhere,” she declares, her brow furrowed, arms crossed.

“I’m fine,” Blaze growls, wincing as he moves. “I’m going with Ember.”

“Fine? You’ve got cracked ribs, a concussion, a gash in your bicep, and a bullet wound that I just stitched closed.” Doc Summers shakes her head with frustration. “You take one wrong move and you’ll rip it all open again. You need rest—serious rest. If you split those stitches, you’ll have hell to pay.”

Blaze leans forward, ignoring the pain that flashes across his face, his jaw set in stubbornness. “I’m not leaving her. Not tonight.”

Doc Summers huffs, clearly annoyed, but her gaze softens when she looks at me. She mutters something under her breath about Guardians being thick-headed brutes, then throws up her hands.

“Fine. But if you rip open anything, don’t come crying to me.”

“You don’t have to come. I can—I can make it on my own.”

“You’re damn right about that, and that’s exactly why I’m coming.” Blaze grabs me by my shoulder and stoops to look me dead in the eyes. “You don’t have to do everything on your own anymore. I’m here, and I’m coming with you.”

A lump forms in my throat, my chest tightening at his words. I’ve never had someone stand beside me like this. It’s always been me, fighting my battles, facing the darkness alone.

His gaze, fierce and unwavering, is almost too much. I want to tell him I don’t need his help, that I’m fine on my own, but the words die before they reach my lips, replaced by something warmer, something terrifying.

For a moment, I stare at him, my heart pounding. A mix of fear and something close to hope rises in me. This idea of not bearing the weight alone is foreign to me.

My instinct is to push away, to protect myself, but looking into his eyes, I see the promise he’s making. He’s here—really here. And for once, maybe that’s enough.

We ride together, the vehicle jostling over every bump and pothole, Blaze beside me, his presence a steadying anchor in the storm of my thoughts. Despite the lingering pain, he doesn’t complain, doesn’t falter, just stays right there—solid, unwavering.

When we finally reach my building, a wave of something almost like shame washes over me. The brick is chipped, the paint is peeling, and the lobby door sticks if you don’t pull it just right. The lights flicker; the elevator’s been out for weeks, and I feel a pang of discomfort as I realize Blaze is about to see just how little I have.

How I’m barely scraping by.

There’s an ancient lock on the door that’s never worked. The doorknob screeches, the metal grinding before finally turning. Every muscle in my body screams as I push open the door to my apartment.

The building is barely a step above condemned, the hallways outside filled with peeling paint, cracked walls, and a musty dampness that clings to everything.

My apartment is no better. The walls are scuffed, and the single window rattles in its frame, allowing a cold draft to sneak through the gaps. The floors are uneven, and the boards creak beneath our feet as we step inside.

The familiar scent of lavender and beeswax wraps around me, mingling with the lingering tang of blood and gunpowder that clings to my clothes. The space is cramped, barely enough room for the essentials, though calling them that feels like a stretch.

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