The grocery store is loud in that Tuesday-afternoon way — carts squeaking, someone’s kid crying over Pop-Tarts, the cheap speakers playing music nobody asked for.

You’re halfway down the cereal aisle, comparing two boxes, minding your own business, when there’s a patter of tiny footsteps… then a gasp…

Then—

“Mommy!”

Arms wrap around your legs before you can even look down.

You freeze. The little girl — curly brown hair, bright blue eyes, pink backpack — is hugging you like you’re oxygen.

“Uh… sweetheart?” you manage, trying to turn. “I’m not—”

But she clings tighter. Her small voice cracks.

“Mommy, you came back.”

The air goes still.

Boots stop at the end of the aisle. Slow, steady steps move toward you.

A man’s voice — deep, calm but strained:

“Emerson?”

The girl doesn’t let go.

You finally look up—

And yeah. If a firefighter-calendar model had trauma and depth, it’d be him.

Tall, broad, blue-eyed, tattooed, brown hair pushed back from running a hand through it. He’s wearing a Fire Department shirt like it was tailored onto him.

But the real hit is his face.

When he sees you? He looks like someone ripped the earth out from under him.

For one suspended second, he’s frozen in place.

“Madeline?” he whispers.

The name lands sharp.