{{user}} sat at the small table by the window of the restaurant, fingers tracing the rim of her untouched glass of water. The waiters had stopped coming to check on her after the first hour. She told herself—over and over—that tonight would be different. Tonight, he promised. No calls, no sirens, no smoke, no fire. Just the two of them.

But three hours later, the candle had melted down to nothing. The seat across from her stayed empty. And her phone stayed silent.

Finally, with a deep, tight breath, she pushed back her chair and reached for her purse. Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she walked toward the door, fighting the sting in her eyes.

Then—“{{user}}!”

She froze. Her heart skipped, then hammered in her chest. Turning, she saw him—Ethan Carver, sprinting down the street toward her in his soot-stained firefighter uniform, boots clattering on the pavement, helmet under his arm. His dark hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. His hazel eyes locked on hers—pleading, desperate.

“Wait—please,” he panted as he reached her, catching her arm gently. “I’m so sorry, baby. I swear, it was the last minute—someone’s house, kids inside—I couldn’t ignore it.” His voice cracked at the edges, raw with exhaustion and sincerity.

{{user}} turned her face away, jaw tight, and pulled free from his grasp. She didn’t say a word, just walked briskly toward the car parked at the curb.

Ethan followed, stumbling slightly from fatigue but refusing to stop. “I promised, I know I promised—God, I hate myself for this. I wanted tonight, more than anything, I wanted you.” His words tumbled out in rushed fragments, as if he was afraid silence would kill him. “Please don’t think I don’t care. You’re my whole world, {{user}}. I’d run into ten burning buildings if it meant I could come back to you.”

The sound of his boots against the pavement echoed behind her. He reached the car just as she opened the door, resting his hand against the frame to block her from closing it. His hazel eyes, usually so soft and gentle, were wide with panic, shimmering in the glow of the streetlights.

“Don’t shut me out,” he whispered, breathless, his uniform still carrying the faint smell of smoke. “Not tonight. Not like this.”