The voice on the other end of the phone faded as Haustin walked into the loud, overcrowded bar. Spice. Even the name of the place annoyed him. Some new hipster hangout, as if New York needed any more.

"Where are you?"

He ignored the shrill question. "Just let me come by to see the kids."

"Are you at a bar?" his soon to be ex-wife, Lindsey, demanded. Haustin groaned. She didn't understand as usual. After today, after the little girl, he needed to see a happy, living child. His.

"Can I come over to see my kids?" he repeated through gritted teeth.

"No, and you know why. If you're at a bar I can only imagine the state you're in. I don't trust them with you when you're drinking, or worse. Clean yourself up, Haus. Then, maybe, we'll talk about it."

He stared at the phone after she disconnected. Clean himself up? She had no idea what the hell she was talking about. He was fine. A woman passed by, too close, nearly choking him with the cloud of perfume following her. Well, he would be fine once he got out of here.

"I'm leaving," he said, turning towards the door.

Abel grabbed his arm. "Nope. No way. You need to let loose after the shift we had."

His friend was wrong. He needed to be at home, alone, not socializing, and pretending everything was okay. The senselessness of death clung to him. Losing those they were supposed to save was defeating, especially when one was a little girl with blond curls. Anger burned in his gut, begging to be numbed with cheap whiskey. Shrugging, he figured he might as well stay or else he'd never hear the end of it. A couple of drinks, mixed with a handful of pills he swiped off the nurse he hooked up with last week, sounded perfect. He intended to stop the self-medicating someday, but right now, it helped keep him numb and numb was good.

A sharp-dressed man in a suit bumped into him, and Haustin clenched his jaw to lock down the angry words itching to be let loose. He hated places like this. The air inside was cloying, thick with the irresistible allure of alcohol, and the walls seemed to be closing in on him, pressing the bodies of the other patrons into his space.

Another asshole, younger this time and laughing with his buddies, lurched into him. "Watch it," he growled.

"Sorry, dude," the kid tossed over his shoulder, barely pausing his conversation.

"Relax, Haustin." He cut a narrowed glance at Abel. The urge to wipe the smirk off Abel's face flared, hot and bright, but he refrained. Didn't want to ruin the guys' fun like last time.

Then, he saw her, sitting with Alex, and their gazes locked. He grabbed a nearby table for support, knocking glasses askew, and went freefalling into the past.

The single constant in his life the past few years, other than the pain, had been the girl he saved on 9/11. He never forgot her face, those piercing brown eyes, the way she trembled in his arms, the grief and fear they had shared. Amid all the ghosts he retained from that day, she was his talisman—proof he'd been able to do something right even as everything else went wrong.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. The woman in front of him had to be a dream. He approached slowly, taking in her bare, tan arms, and full lips. Her vitality frightened him, drawing attention to his aching muscles and tired, aging body. With fists clenching and unclenching involuntarily, Haustin battled whether he should run towards her or out of the bar. His feet decided for him, and he stepped closer.

"You," she said breathlessly.

Alex broke the silence. "Do you two know each other?"

Neither spoke, only stared at each other.

Alex's girlfriend gasped, "Yael, is he...?"

"What'd I miss?" Abel leaned in. "When did you save her?"

Haustin cleared his throat and found his voice. "9/11."

Vaguely, he heard Abel say, "Okay, move along, nothing to see here, boys."

Half a beat of silence passed before his crew started talking again, turning away to give him privacy. Most of them knew the story, the bits and pieces he let slip over the years, and understood who she was and how huge a moment this was for him.

Yael slid from the booth and approached him. Her hair, dark brown with some red mixed in it, flowed past her shoulders in waves. She was short, about five-three, and a tiny scar bisected her chin and another cut into her eyebrow. He swallowed hard. For a long time, he'd convinced himself she was dead, like so many others from that day, especially considering how many times her dust-covered face haunted his dreams. Seeing her flooded him with memories and emotions he fought to keep buried on a daily basis. He didn't know if he should hug her or shake her hand. Hell, he still wasn't positive it really was her. Considering the day he had, he wouldn't be surprised if he was hallucinating.

She shattered that theory by throwing her arms around his neck, proving she was real. He did the same, holding on tight. He was the tough guy on the job, the one they all looked up to, and here he was clinging to a woman he barely knew, afraid to let go for fear of drowning in visions of the past.

What a pussy.

Yael stepped out of his arms, reaching up and wiping her damp cheeks. "I've thought about what I'd say to you if we met again, which I never imagined would happen. Now that you're here, I'm at a loss."

"I've done the same thing." They fell back into staring at each other, and panic grabbed him by the throat as he struggled for something to say. Anything. Jesus. "Want to sit over there?"

She nodded, and Haustin led her to the end of the bar, away from the crowd. As the silence returned, he fidgeted. His clothes felt too small, making it uncomfortable to breathe, and he wondered when his heart would stop racing. He should have listened to Abel and worn something besides a ratty FDNY t-shirt still doused with smoke.

"The most important thing I need to know is your name." She grinned at him. "Not letting you go this time without it."

"Haustin Macauley."

"Yael." They shook hands. "I guess thanks would be a start, but it doesn't come close to covering what's running through my mind."

Haustin cleared his throat again. "I could give you the normal line, about how it's my job, but that's a lie. It was one of those moments in life where every exact detail is seared on my brain for eternity."

"How have you been?"

He opened his mouth to answer then clamped it shut, turning to stare at the bottles behind the bar. Anything he said would probably send her running.

"What a stupid question." She thrummed her fingertips on the bar, a restless rhythm that matched the thumping in his chest. "I used to hate when people asked me the same thing. Still do. Answering never gets any easier." A fleeting shadow crossed her face, there and gone, almost too quick to catch.

"It's not a pretty story." He kept his eyes trained on the bar as he spoke. The bartender shifted over to them, and Haustin ordered a double whiskey.

"Water is fine for me," Yael said. When they were alone again, she returned to their conversation. "Are you married?"

He shook his head. "Separated. Soon to be divorced."

"Kids?"

"Twins. Boy and a girl. Don't see them as much as I'd like."

"Why?"

"My ex is afraid."

"Of what?" He snuck a glance at her, seeing only curiosity.

"Me, maybe. Who knows." The server set their drinks in front of them, and Haustin took a deep gulp of the amber liquid, relishing in the familiar burn. She traced a tattoo on the inside of her wrist—it looked more like a black freckle and a smudge.

"Do you sleep at night?" he asked.

"I'm getting better." Yael offered him a weak smile. "Once upon a time I needed help to make it the whole night."

"Same here." He reached into his jeans and pulled out his pill bottle, rattling it. "The nightmares and guilt make it impossible to function. These help."

Yael snatched the bottle, studying the label. Her thin fingers trembled as she handed it back to him. "This is serious stuff."

"The shrinks passed them around like candy afterwards—pills to help you sleep, pills to help with the anger, ones for depression, PTSD. I guess I got used to having them." Haustin shifted uneasily. "Any of this sound familiar?"

"No prescription drugs for me." Yael hesitated as if gathering her nerve, unable to meet his stare. "I didn't want to numb the pain, I preferred oblivion. Cocaine helped at first. Later, heroin."

"And now?"

"In about a month and a half I'll have been sober for a year. This time."

Looking closer, he identified lingering traces of her addiction, the gauntness of her face, how her arms were still a little too thin, the lines radiating from her eyes. Regardless, he found her beautiful, maybe more because of it.

"Congratulations." Haustin raised his whiskey to her. "Unlike you, I continue to fight it."

"I fight it, too, Haustin." She touched his wrist briefly. "Every damn day."

"I have decent stretches and bad," he said in defense. No way he'd admit to her how terrible the bad stretches were, though. He did have some pride left.

"Not the best way to cope, considering what you do for a living."

He weighed his reply. "I try not to while I'm working, but sometimes it can't be helped. The guys in my crew pretend it's okay, as long as I get the job done and we all go home at the end of the shift."

"I find that hard to believe." She pinned him with a doubtful look. "What happens the day someone doesn't make it home?"

He deflected her unsettling question. "It's dysfunctional and dangerous, but it works." There weren't many people in his life who could call him on his pill usage and not be met with his wrath. Why was it okay for her? And why in God's name did he even tell her? "I know I put them at risk every time we go on a call. I do. But I also deserve to forget about shit that would have a normal man going fetal. I say, who gives a rat's ass, I need it after what I witnessed today."

"Rough call?"

He simply nodded. No matter how intense the connection they shared, no one needed to hear the details of his job. It was hard enough for him. Instead, he asked, "Do you live in New York or are you visiting? Hell, did you live here before?"

"Born and raised. I had just started my sophomore year at NYU. Three days after 9/11, I ran away and stayed as far from this life as I could. Too many memories. I became pretty good friends with my cowardice." She shook her head. "I drove across the country, can you believe it? Too scared to take a plane."

"Why come back? If I were you, I would have stayed away forever." It was a novelty he'd entertained once or twice. If it hadn't been for the kids, he might have done it. His gut twisted in response, recognizing the lie. No. He'd never abandon the job or his city.

"My grandmother is dying. She's the only family I have left. It's complicated."

"Will you stay after she's gone?"

"No clue." She sighed, then her eyes grew moist. "It sounds callous, but it's a lot of pressure. She... she has big plans for me." Suddenly, she gathered her purse and slid off the stool. "I should go. Seeing you, these memories are, it's jarring," she waved her hand around. "I need air."

Haustin stood with her, concerned about her quick mood change, desperate to keep her around. He was not ready to say goodbye. "Are you okay? Can I walk you? You shouldn't leave when you're upset."

She considered, for the longest few seconds of Haustin's life, then her lips tipped up in a wobbly smile. "Company does sound nice. We can take a cab to the park and walk to my place from there."

Do you think they'll get together?