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“I lost my parents a little over two years ago,” she admits. “Car accident we were all in. Things haven’t been the same since.” I know, I want to say. I want to admit that I was the one working the scene that night. That I was the firefighter who pulled her parents’ bodies from the wreckage. That I held her shaking hand as I got her into the ambulance. That I went to the hospital after my shift to check on her and have watched over her ever since.
“Whoa there!” a familiar voice chuckles as hands steady me. “Where’s the fire?” “Tyler?” I step back. Why is he at my house? Again. His eyes travel down to my sweater, and his lips twitch into a grin. “Nice reindeer. Very . . . festive.” “Uh, yeah.” I don’t like the feeling I’m starting to get. Another unannounced visit is just . . . weird.
There’s a pause before his response comes through. You want a man who doesn’t ask. He just does. You want a man who takes control, who knows what you need before you even realize it yourself. I see a woman who craves intensity. Who wants to be pushed to her limits, to experience everything life has to offer. But I also see someone who’s afraid. Afraid of losing control, of being truly vulnerable.

