12. Wade

Chapter twelve

Wade

T he 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 the pitying 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—"

"Cut the crap, Wade." Tom dropped into the chair across from my desk. "The nightmares are getting worse, aren't they? That's why you're here at dawn, looking like you haven't slept in days."

I didn't answer, but my hands tightened on the report I held until the paper crackled.

"You know what I think?" Tom leaned forward. "I think they're worse because you're starting to feel something again for the first time in three years. And that scares the hell out of you."

"You're not my therapist." The words came out sharper than intended.

"No, I'm your friend. That means I get to tell you that you're being an idiot." He gestured toward the door. "That kid lights up this whole station every time he walks in. Maya's smiling more. Even the damn coffee maker seems to work better when he's around."

"He deserves better than—"

"Than what? Someone who understands loss? Someone who matches his strength with a different kind of courage?" Tom lowered his tone. "You think you're the only one with scars, Wade? That's arrogant. Do you think he doesn't have any of his own?"

The words rattled me. I thought about Holden caring for his grandfather, watching someone he loved struggle for every breath. He kept smiling anyway, finding joy in small victories. Maybe Tom had a point.

"The memorial service." My voice sounded strange in my own ears. "It's in two weeks. They want me to speak."

"Ah." Tom settled deeper into his chair. "So that's what triggered this latest retreat."

"I can't—" The words stuck in my throat. "I can't stand up there and talk about courage and sacrifice when I—"

"When you lived?" Tom's voice was as sharp as a razor blade. "When you survived and kept going and built something new? Yeah, that sets such a terrible example."

A knock at the outer door saved me from having to respond. Maya spoke from the other side. "Wade? You've got a visitor. And if you try to claim you're not here again, I'm telling Sarah at the Bean about that time with the angry geese."

"Traitor," I muttered.

Tom stood, his knees cracking. "You can't outrun your heart forever. It's anchored there in your chest." He paused at the door. "And Wade? Those nightmares? Maybe they're not about what you couldn't save. Maybe they're about what you still can."

He left me with that thought, the door clicking shut behind him. Through the window, I watched him cross the parking lot, pausing to say something to Holden, who stood by his car with what looked like a thermos and a familiar paper bag from the Bean.

I should have joined all of them. I should have apologized for disappearing and for not answering Holden's texts. Instead, I grabbed my gear and slipped out the back door, taking the utility trail that wound behind the station.

Clouds hung low on the horizon when I turned onto the ridge trail. Each step carried me further from warmth, connection, and the possibility of more nightmares where I failed to save someone else I—

The rest of the day passed in a haze of routine tasks. I cleared fallen branches from trails, updated warning signs about the seasonal bear activity, and pretended not to notice how my phone stayed silent in my pocket. By sunset, exhaustion filled my bones, but I knew sleep would only bring more dreams.

As the stars began to appear above me, I finally trudged up the steps to my cabin. Inside, everything waited as I'd left it: coffee cup in the sink, bed still rumpled from the morning's nightmare, and a sketch of Holden half-finished on my desk.

I'd just settled into my chair with a bottle of whiskey—barely two fingers poured—when headlights swept across my front window. A car door slammed, followed by footsteps on my porch—lighter than Tom's, more sure than Maya's.

"I know you're in there." It was Holden's voice. "I brought reinforcements."

I could have pretended to be asleep, maintaining the walls I'd spent days rebuilding. Instead, I crossed the room, drawn to his voice like a moth to flame.

He stood on my porch with a thermos in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. The porch light sparkled in his eyes. He wore a soft flannel shirt with a light jacket.

"Hi."

"It's dark out." My voice was gruff. "You shouldn't be here."

"Probably not." Holden shrugged. "I figured if you were going to brood alone in the dark, you might as well have hot chocolate and someone to share wild stories about the town's legendary squirrel gang with. Or, if you insist on being alone, at least enjoy the hot chocolate."

I surprised myself when a laugh caught in my throat. "Squirrel, what?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" He smiled mischievously. "Sarah swears there's an organized crime syndicate of squirrels that's been stealing premium trail mix and running a black market nut operation. It's getting worse than you described. Maya has corroborating evidence. They supposedly have a hideout behind the visitor center."

I stepped back, letting him inside. He moved through my space with familiar ease, setting his supplies on the kitchen counter.

"They say the ring leader is this one-eyed squirrel with a notched ear." Holden continued his story while he unpacked the grocery bag—bread, sliced turkey, cheese, and chips. By the time he finished unpacking his supplies, I'd forgotten the untouched drink. Some kinds of comfort worked better than others.

His voice filled the hollow spaces in my cabin. "Parker swears he saw it wearing a tiny fedora, but I think that was after he'd had too much espresso."

"Holden, why are you really here?"

I watched as he pulled two mugs from a cabinet in my kitchen. He poured hot chocolate for each of us. His expression was warm when he looked up and offered me a mug.

"Because you're trying to protect me by pushing me away, and I'm trying to show you that I don't need that kind of protection. I need you."

The simple honesty in his voice made unshed tears burn at the corners of my eyes. I accepted the mug, careful not to let our fingers brush.

He started assembling sandwiches from the turkey and cheese he'd brought, his hands moving with casual purpose. "I figured you've probably not been eating well, and brooding on an empty stomach never helps."

Holden fixed the food like he'd been doing it every day.. How long had it been since anyone had cared enough to feed me? The sandwich he passed me was simple—turkey, cheese, a touch of mustard—but it was more than just food.

Between bites, I tried to offer part of an explanation. "The memorial service—"

"I know." He settled onto my couch, half of a sandwich in his right hand, tucking his left leg under him. "Tom told me. That's why the nightmares are getting worse, isn't it?"

I sank into my chair, the leather creaking beneath me. The hot chocolate was rich and dark, with a hint of something spicy. "They want me to speak. It's supposed to be about courage and sacrifice and moving forward." A bitter laugh escaped. "As if I'm some kind of example."

"You are." Holden's voice was soft but sure. "Just not the way they think."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You didn't merely survive, Wade. You rebuilt. You found new ways to help people and protect them." He gestured at my ranger uniform, draped over a kitchen chair. "Every time you guide lost hikers home or teach kids about trail safety or build safer paths—that's using your bottomless well of courage."

"It's not enough." I spit the words out into the air between us. " Jenkins had three kids. Martinez was getting married that spring. They had futures. They had families with people who needed them—"

"And you think you don't?" Holden set his mug down. "You think there aren't people who need you now?"

The intensity in Holden's voice made me look up. Moonlight streamed through my window, creating silver highlights in Holden's hair. He'd never looked less like the carefree kid I expected him to be.

"I'm not—" I swallowed hard. "I'm not good for you, Holden. These nightmares, the memorial, all of it—you deserve better than someone who's still fighting old ghosts."

"Maybe I want to fight them with you." He moved closer. "Maybe I'm stronger than you think."

"I know you're strong." My voice cracked. "That's not—"

"Then stop treating me like I'm some fragile glass figurine." His hand found mine, warm and sure. "I've watched my grandfather struggle for every breath, and I've helped him fight his way back—multiple times. I've held him through panic attacks when he forgets where he is. I can handle your ghosts, Wade. If you let me."

"I'm terrified." It was a stunning admission, spoken in a whisper.

"Good." His thumb brushed my cheek. "That means you're finally letting yourself feel something."

"I'll be an old geezer by the time you're in your prime," I muttered, tension returning to my shoulders.

"Good thing I'm getting practice living with one now," Holden shot back with a teasing smile. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

When his lips found mine, they tasted like the hot chocolate. The kiss differed from our others—slower, deeper, weighted with everything we hadn't said. For the first time, I began to undress Holden.

His body was young, softer around the edges, but still strong with firm muscle beneath the smooth skin. I needed to show him that I didn't think he was fragile. He made a slight sound in the back of his throat that undid the last of my restraint.

I pulled him closer, my rough, calloused hands kneading his exposed flesh. Holden moaned louder when one of my hands slid downward. I cupped his cock and balls, weighing them, rubbing my thumb along the stiff outline. I always believed it was how men would greet each other if the gesture weren't considered socially inappropriate.

Somehow, we ended up on my couch, Holden lay on top of me with his weight pressing my body into the cushions. His fingers worked at my shirt buttons, and I didn't stop him. When the fabric parted, his hands traced each scar with reverent care. He lowered his head and followed with light flicks of his tongue.

He whispered, "The stories these tell."

"You don't want—"

He pressed a finger against my lips. "It's your stories. I want to know all of them." His lips found that worst scar at my collarbone, and I shivered.

I gripped his face between my hands and stared deep into his eyes. A confession spilled out before I could stop it. "I dream about losing you. The fire consumes you. I can't reach you in time, and—"

Holden cut the words off with another kiss. He fiercely claimed my lips. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere." He began sliding his body downward, trailing his lips and tongue over my chest and the hairy trail in the center of my abs. I gasped when he opened the button at the top of my jeans.

"I… I… Holden, it's been a long time."

He looked up with that damned familiar grin on his face. "I haven't been with anyone since back in Portland, so we can be clumsy together."

I had to laugh. None of my intimate partners ever said anything like that. He was giving us complete and open permission to be ourselves. When did that ever happen between two naked men?

The sound of my jeans unzipping filled the silence between us. I tangled my fingers into Holden's hair while he tugged the waistband of my boxers down, causing my cock to break free of any restraint, standing upright as it pointed toward the ceiling.

Holden stared in wonder. I knew what was going on. He'd found something else he thought was beautiful, and I couldn't stop a small smile from animating the corners of my mouth.

When he took the head of my cock into his mouth, lightly flicking the head with his tongue, I gripped the couch firmly. It was the kind of connection I'd wanted with him from the moment I first saw him, but I knew we couldn't fit. I was a square peg pushing middle age while he remained a young…

"Unnhhh! Close… damn…"

It didn't take me long. I'd been taking care of my pressing needs with my hand since I left Chicago. Gripping Holden's hair tightly in my fist, I arched my hips and grunted louder. I'd never been a noisy man in bed, but with him, I could barely restrain myself. Muttering, "Ahh fuck," I erupted into his mouth, and he swallowed.

It was the sexiest thing I'd experienced in many years. Holden pulled back and stared at me while he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. He grinned and then kissed me. It tasted like me with a lingering hint of chocolate.

Holden snuggled up by my side, and I pressed a hand against his chest, staring into his eyes. "But you didn't… isn't it your turn?"

"I did precisely what I meant to do. Counting on this not being the last time, we can take care of anything else later."

I grinned and pushed my head into his shoulder, sniffing that sandalwood smell.

Later, wrapped in blankets and each other, I told Holden everything. The words poured out like water let loose by a broken dam. I explained that Jenkins had shown me pictures of his kids that morning and that Martinez had been practicing his wedding vows in the locker room. I explained how the fire spread faster than anyone predicted and how the choices I'd made in split seconds still haunted me.

He listened with his head on my chest, tracing patterns on my scarred skin with his fingertips. He didn't try to fix anything. He merely witnessed my pain, letting it exist without trying to paint over it.

"The memorial service," I finally said, voice rough. "I don't know if I can—"

"You can." He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. "And I'll be there if you want me to be."

"You'd do that?"

"Of course, but I should warn you—I'll probably bring snacks. Emotional support pretzels are very important."

A laugh escaped before I could catch it. "You're crazy."

"Maybe." His expression turned serious. "But I'm also right. You don't have to do this alone, Wade. Any of it."

"Stay tonight?" The question slipped out before I could catch it.

Holden shook his head and sighed. "I can't leave Grandpa alone all night. Not with his oxygen levels being unpredictable lately." He traced his finger along my collarbone. "But maybe... maybe you could stay with us sometime? Once I talk to him about it?"

The suggestion caught me off guard. "You'd want that?"

"Of course, I would." He pushed up on one elbow to gaze at me. "Grandpa already likes you, you know. He says you remind him of his favorite student—some quiet kid who turned out to be the best shop teacher Blue Harbor High ever had."

I tried to imagine myself in that house, with its crystal wind chimes and memories of Isabella's art. Sleeping under the same roof as a man who'd shaped so many lives, including my own, in ways I was only beginning to understand.

"You don't have to answer now." Holden kissed the center of my chest. "Just... think about it? The guest room has a view of the lake."

"You should probably get home then." I glanced at the clock, surprised to find it was almost 11 PM.

He nodded, but made no move to get up. Instead, he pressed his lips to the scar on my shoulder. "For the record? This was worth staying up late for."

We dressed slowly. When Holden pulled on his flannel shirt, I noticed he'd buttoned it wrong, but I didn't say anything. It would be another precious memory of his quirky, unique personality.

At his car, he turned to me one last time. "Promise you won't disappear again?"

"I promise." And for the first time in years, I meant it.

He drove away, taillights disappearing into the night. I stood on my porch until the sound of his engine faded, replaced by the gentle lap of waves in the distance.

Inside, the cabin felt different—less like a fortress and more like a home. I knew the nightmares might return, but now I had more ammunition to fight against them. I had a future worth anticipating.

Somewhere in the forest, an owl called out to its mate. I started thinking about crystal wind chimes and lake views and how sometimes the scariest steps forward are the ones most worth taking.