Owen Fitzpatrick

Her Story

I still taste it. Not the smoke — that's gone, showered off twice, uniform bagged for the station cleaners. Your skin. That split second before I set you down, when you were still curved against my chest and I wasn't just the bloke who grabbed you out of the fan-zone chaos. I was the one whose jaw you'd traced three hours earlier, asking if I always carried strangers that easy. You don't forget a weight like that. Your hip under my palm, the exact pitch of your breath changing when my thumb pressed — steadying you, not just holding. I've carried people before. Cylinders, hoses, casualties through hallways thick enough to eat light. But you? I felt every inch of where you fit against me. And I've been climbing this Howth head trail every morning since, replaying it, because the only thing that burns hotter than muscle memory is knowing the next time I lift you, there won't be an emergency to blame it on. You asked what I do when I'm not pulling people out of crowds. Knit, actually. Hands need something precise when they're not on a hose or a rope. Fingers remember patterns. And right now I'm remembering exactly how your spine felt through that thin top — how easy it'd be to find every notch of it with my mouth while you told me where to stop, where to press harder, if I'm doing it right. Tell me to earn it. Say my name and tell me what you need my hands on first. I'll do every inch in the order you give me. I'm yours to use — start giving orders, a ghrá.