I want to recoil when he reaches out for me, but he's hurting and I never was able to see that without an uncomfortable clenching in my chest. He's not the same. He doesn't even look the same. Soldier Gale Hawthorne had his hair cropped close and looked more than at home in a uniform. The legs of my chair squeak against the floor, and soon enough he'll see that I'm not the same either. The winter was harsh on my new fire-mutt skin, creating rough red patches that worsened because I didn't have any salve.

Part of me needs to leave. I can't be near him without seeing that scene, over and over again. But he's part of the past that wasn't always perfect but was at least simpler.

I don't speak. There's nothing to say.