Page 12 of The Heat Between Us

"You made it," I whisper, more to myself than to her. "We both did."

I don't intend to stay long—just long enough to see for myself that she's alright. But as I watch her sleep, I find myself unwilling to leave. The doctors said she was stable, but what if she wakes up disoriented? What if she needs something?

So I stay, watching over her as the minutes tick by. At some point, I reach out and gently take her hand, careful not to disturb the IV. Her skin is warm against mine, another reassurance that she's alive, that we survived.

"I meant what I said, you know," I murmur to her sleeping form. "About dinner. About wanting to know you better. Fire or no fire, there's something about you, Chloe Bennett."

She doesn't stir, but I swear her fingers tighten slightly around mine. And that's enough for now—that, and the knowledge that tomorrow, when she wakes up, I'll be here. Whatever happens next, we'll face it together, just like we faced the fire.

Outside the window, night has fully fallen over Cedar Falls. Somewhere across town, the ruins of what would have been Chloe's law office are still smoldering. But in this quiet room, holding the hand of a woman I barely know yet feel inexplicably connected to, I find myself thinking not of what was lost, but of what might be found.

Chapter 5 - Chloe

I wake to sunlight streaming across my face, warm and insistent. For a moment, I'm disoriented—this isn't my bed, this isn't my rented room above Mrs. Finch's garage. The air smells wrong—antiseptic and sterile instead of the lavender sachets she insisted on putting in all the linens.

Then it all comes rushing back: the fire, the smoke, the terror. Lewis.

Lewis.

As if conjured by my thoughts, I become aware of a large figure slumped in the chair beside my bed. I blink, rubbing sleep from my eyes, convinced I must be hallucinating. But no—as my vision clears, I can make out his features, softened in sleep but unmistakable. The strong jawline now visible without the layer of soot, dark hair tousled from what must have been an uncomfortable night in that chair, broad shoulders rising and falling with each breath.

He's real. He's here.

A plastic tube runs under my nose, delivering oxygen that feels cool and strange. My throat feels raw, and there's an IV in my arm. Hospital. I'm in the hospital. But I'm alive, which means...

"You got us out," I whisper, my voice raspy and painful.

Lewis stirs at the sound, his eyes opening slowly. When they focus on me, a smile breaks across his face, transforming it completely. In the clean light of morning, without ash and fear clouding my perception, I can see just how handsome he is—in a rugged, lived-in way that makes my heart do a strange little flip.

"You're awake," he says, straightening in the chair. He looks like he wants to reach for me but is holding himself back. "How do you feel?"

"Like I inhaled a bonfire," I croak, attempting a smile. "Which I guess is pretty accurate."

He laughs, the sound warming something inside me. "Yeah, that's about right. The doctors say you're going to be fine, though. No permanent damage."

I take stock of my body—the soreness in my lungs, the scratchy throat, the lingering smell of smoke that seems embedded in my hair despite the hospital shampoo someone must have used to clean me up. All things considered, I feel remarkably alive.

"You stayed all night?" I ask, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the creases in his clothes.

He looks almost embarrassed. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. And I thought you might be confused when you woke up, not knowing anyone in town."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture makes my chest tighten with something that has nothing to do with smoke inhalation.

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than those simple words can convey.

Lewis shrugs, as if spending the night watching over a virtual stranger is nothing unusual.

"How much do you remember?" he asks.

"Everything, I think," I say, fragments of our time trapped together flashing through my mind. The heat, the fear, the strange intimacy of facing death with someone I'd just met. "We were trapped, and then your team found us, and then..." I trail off, remembering the dizziness, the darkness closing in. "I passed out?"

He nods. "Right as we were getting to the exit. Scared the hell out of me."

There's something in his voice, a depth of concern that seems disproportionate to our brief acquaintance. But then, there was nothing ordinary about the way we met. Hours trapped in a burning building, talking about our lives, our dreams—it's like we skipped all the usual steps of getting to know someone and jumped straight into something deeper.

"I'm sorry," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. For scaring him? For passing out? For the entire situation?

"Don't be," he says firmly. "None of this was your fault."

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