The fire was everywhere. Smoke choked the hallways, flames licked across the ceiling, and every second felt like it stretched forever. But Barry Allen was used to outrunning forever.

He’d already pulled dozens of people out, families, elderly neighbors, even a firefighter who’d collapsed from the heat. Each trip back into the building took less than a heartbeat, but with every run, he knew the risk climbed higher.

Then he reached the last room.

He tore the door off its hinges, rushing inside. The smoke parted just enough for him to see them: two young girls huddled together under a desk, as if they’d been protecting each other when the fire took them.

Barry froze. For a moment, the world slowed down, not because of his speed, but because his heart just… stopped. He dropped to his knees, checking, hoping, begging that maybe there was still something to be done. But it was too late.

He swallowed hard, throat tight. He forced himself to move, to get back on his feet, because there were still others depending on him outside. But those girls… their faces burned into his mind more fiercely than the fire around him.

Hours later, Barry finally walked into his apartment. He had showered at the station, scrubbing away the smell of smoke, but it clung to him anyway. His partner was curled up on the couch with a blanket, waiting.

Barry tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He kicked off his boots, dropped onto the couch beside them, and immediately leaned into their side. His head rested against their shoulder, heavy, like even gravity was too much tonight.