Page 28 of Born in Fire

Screw Tyler! Screw him and his bullshit.

He doesn’t get to ruin my life. I left him so that I could live again… and this is me living again. Taking pleasure where I want it. So what if it’s only been two dates? Some women have one-night stands. Some women don’t let men hurt them or intimidate them. I have the right to that, too.

In the shower, I notice my body with new awareness. My hands trace paths where Dorian’s lips had been, appreciating rather than criticizing. Tyler had always pointed out flaws—the birthmark on my hip, the asymmetry of my breasts. Dorian had touched me like I was something precious, something perfect in my imperfection.

I wrap myself in a towel and wipe steam from the mirror. My reflection looks different somehow. Same features, same sandy-blonde hair, but something has shifted in my eyes. They look clearer. More resilient.

“You’re still you,” I tell my reflection. “Just… more.”

In the kitchen, I prepare breakfast with unusual attention—fresh berries arranged carefully atop yogurt, coffee brewed with precision. I’m halfway through eating when I realize I still haven’t checked the locks. For a moment, anxiety flickers—what if Tyler came back while I slept? What if the door isn’t secure?

I take a deep breath in.

One, two, three, four. Hold. Release.

“Check if you need to,”my therapist’s voice says in my head,“but make it a choice, not a compulsion.”

I finish my breakfast first. A small victory, but it feels significant.

When I do finally check the locks, I do it once. Just once. Not the usual three times. Another victory.

Sitting on the couch where everything happened last night, I remember my panic attack—the way my chest had constricted, vision tunneling, breath coming in gasps. Tyler’s flowers. The violation of my safe space.

But more vividly, I remember Dorian’s response. No dismissal. No irritation. No “you’re overreacting” or “just calm down.” He’d simply acted—removing the trigger, securing the space, remaining present without demanding explanation.

Tyler would have used my panic to prove my weakness, my dependence on him. Dorian had somehow used it to return power to me.

I grab a notebook and pen. At the top of the page, I write: RECLAIMING CONTROL.

I stare at the list, then add a fifth item:

The last one makes me nervous but also determined. My therapist has been working with me on distinguishing between anxiety and intuition. And my intuition about Dorian feels… different. Clearer. Like recognizing something I’ve been looking for without knowing I was searching.

I get dressed for work with unusual care—a blue blouse that makes my eyes seem deeper than their normal bland shade, jeans that fit well, hair loose around my shoulders. Not for anyone else. For me.

The Grind & Bean is already bustling when I arrive. Lisa does a double-take as I hang up my coat.

“You look different,” she says, studying me. “Good different.”

“Thanks.” I tie my cheery polka dot apron with brisk movements. “I feel different.”

Like someone who got lucky.

I stifle a grin as I move behind the counter with a confidence I haven’t felt in months. My hands are steady as I calibrate the espresso machine. My voice is clear as I greet the first customers. I catch myself standing straighter, making clear eye contact rather than the quick glances I usually manage.

Mid-morning, a businessman in an expensive suit approaches the counter. I’ve seen him before—he always orders a double espresso and makes comments that skirt the line between friendly and flirtatious.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says with an obnoxiously smooth smile. “You’re looking especially lovely today.”

Three days ago, this would have made me shrink, mumble a response, and focus intently on making his drink. Today, I meet his eyes directly.

“Good morning,” I reply pleasantly but professionally. “Double espresso today?”

He looks momentarily taken aback by my directness. “Yes, please. And maybe your number to go with it?”

“Just the espresso,” I say with a polite smile that somehow feels like armor. “That’ll be $3.75.”

He pays without further comment, looking slightly confused by my calm refusal. As he walks away, I realize my heart isn’t racing. My palms aren’t sweaty. He didn’t scare me.

---