“And what makes you think I’m going to let you?”

He simply bunched the material of her skirt in his hands and firmly but gently shoved it up.

“Hey—”

Leaning in, he put his hands on her thighs, holding her skirt up, his face right in hers, eyes flashing, mouth grim. “I watched you get dragged out of that inferno tonight, watched you relive an old nightmare. A nightmare, by the way, you never let me help you through the first time.”

“Joe—”

“Back then I had to stand by helplessly as you stayed unconscious for too long, too damn long, bleeding—” His eyes were filled with agony as he broke off. He drew a slow, purposeful breath. “Then you went away, and stayed away. Tonight I once again stood by as you were trapped in a fire, watched as you went into shock. Now finally, there’s something I can do for you, so damn it, let me.”

She stared at him. The silence stretched taut. His face was composed but the vibrations of emotion radiated in waves from his body as he stood there, her skirt in his hand, eyes locked on hers.

“I didn’t stay away to hurt you,” she finally said.

The rushing frustration seemed to drain from him, and he gently set his forehead to hers. “I know.”

She curled into him. “I’m not going to run away, not ever again.”

“Shh.” With a gentleness that reminded her of the boy he’d once been, he treated each of her cuts, slowly, carefully, and when she bit her lower lip at the sting of the antiseptic, he made a hoarse apologetic sound and bent closer, one hand holding up her skirt, the other cradling a thigh in his palm, blowing lightly on her throbbing skin.

“Better?” he murmured. His jaw brushed her knee. He hadn’t shaved, and the growth brought out a set of goose bumps along her flesh, which he stroked with his hand in a heart-melting gesture.

“Much better. God, I was so scared.”

He lifted his head and searched her gaze. He didn’t say anything, didn’t offer empty, meaningless words, just slowly nodded.

And because of it, because it was him, she could admit the rest. “I thought I was toast.”

He let out a low, rough sound and gathered her close.

“It made me so mad,” she whispered, fisting her hands in his shirt. “I was going to die sitting there doing nothing more complicated than feeling sorry for myself.”

“Why were you feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Because I was alone, damn it. I hate being alone.”

“You’re not alone now.”

She lifted her head and stared into his eyes, not sure if she’d heard him right. “I smell like smoke.”

“I noticed.”

But he didn’t object when she lifted her hands and sank them into his shaggy hair. “You need a haircut.”