He reaches her before she gets too close, wrapping his arms around her from behind, pulling her back against his chest.

Del fights him, breath uneven, hands trembling as she tries to push forward—but she doesn’t make it far.

Cassian holds her tighter, voice low and breaking. “Del, please—let them do their job.”

Malerick arrives next, cutting through the crowd in full uniform, his hat askew and streaks of ash on his collar. He slows when he sees her—sees the way she’s shaking in Cassian’s arms.

He reaches out, resting a hand on the back of her neck. Just a touch. Not to stop her—just to remind her he’s there.

“You gotta let the fire crew work,” he says softly. “We can’t lose you too.”

“My coffee shop,” Del says, and it sounds like grief ripped straight from her ribs.

She’s devastated, but there’s no theatrical sobbing—just that flat, hollow tone people use when their brains short-circuit and their body hasn’t caught up yet. Cass still has his arms around her, one hand rubbing slow circles into her back like it’s the only thing he knows how to do right now. Mal leans in close, murmuring something.

Del finally nods. Or maybe it’s just her body giving up, folding into Cass like her bones forgot how to hold her up. Cassian draws her in, his big frame curling around her as if he can shield her from the reality behind them.

Mal kisses her temple before turning toward the first responders, his jaw tight, eyes scanning the wreckage.

And I just stand there.

Fucking useless.

Cassian sinks to the sidewalk, taking Del with him, still holding her like maybe if he’s strong enough, she won’t completely unravel.

I turn away, press the palm of my hand to my mouth. My throat burns, not just from the smoke but from everything—this helplessness, this ache that won’t go away. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to feel any of this.

But something inside me snaps.

I decide to help instead of watching, giving a hand to the paramedics. By the time the flames are out, The Honey Drop is nothing but a scorched skeleton, steaming and blackened, barely recognizable. Her sign is half-melted, the lettering warped like it was trying to hold on but couldn’t.

People stand around with their phones out, filming the aftermath as if it were a true-crime episode, not someone’s entire life turned to ash. I want to scream at them, knock the phones out of their hands. But I don’t. I’m too tired, too covered in smoke and heartbreak to pick a fight with strangers.