Blazing hearts

Quiet. Still. Too Still.

The house had a hush to it, like it knew something was coming.

Chris had been dropped off at school with a million hugs and a promise that Monty would be there when he got back. Monty had kept a soft smile on his face the entire time—smiling through Chris's joy, through Eddie's casual brushes of affection, through Buck's attempts to make breakfast light.

But now?

The house was silent. And Monty stood in the living room, his hoodie zipped all the way up, hands tucked into the pockets, jaw tight.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

Buck and Eddie turned, instantly attentive, smiles flickering off their faces at the tone of his voice.

"Yeah, of course," Eddie said carefully.

Monty glanced toward the hallway. "Just us. No distractions."

The three of them moved to the couch. Monty didn't sit between them. He sat in the chair across from them, body hunched forward, fingers clenched.

He looked like he'd aged years since the night before.

They waited.

And then—

"I need to say something," Monty began, voice low. "And I need y'all to hear me. No comforting. No fixing. Just... listen."

Buck swallowed and nodded. Eddie leaned forward, tense.

Monty exhaled hard, gaze flickering between them.

"After my time in the hospital... after the coma, the therapy, the silence—I've been thinking a lot. About who I am. Who I've been. And what I need."

He paused. His voice broke just slightly when he spoke again.

"I think we need a break."

Silence.

Like a gunshot had just gone off.

Buck blinked like he hadn't heard it right.

Eddie's whole face crumbled. "A break?"

Monty nodded, slow, steady.

"I love you both. So much. That's not a question. That's not changed. But... before the coma. That fight. The things y'all said to me?" His voice cracked. "They stuck."

"Monty—" Buck started, eyes wide.

"No." Monty held up a hand. "Let me finish."

They both went still.

"You're not bad people. I'm not here to blame you. But the words you said? I've heard versions of those before. From people who were supposed to love me. About being too much. Not enough. Too quiet. Not right. And when I woke up and y'all weren't there..."

His breath caught, and he looked down at his hands.

"I thought maybe y'all had given up on me too."

Eddie looked like he'd been gutted. "We didn't know you'd wake up. We didn't know when. But we never—never—stopped loving you."

"I know," Monty said softly. "But love doesn't erase damage. And I... I've got damage."

He finally looked up. His eyes were glassy but resolute.

"I need to focus on me. I need help. Not just therapy. Not just a good cry in the shower. I mean real help. I'm... I'm fucked up. I know that. I know I've got trauma locked so deep I don't even know how to name it."

Buck was already crying now, silent tears down his cheeks.

"You don't have to do that alone," he whispered.

Monty smiled softly, painfully.

"But I do. Just for a little while. Because I can't be a partner to y'all when I don't even know who I am when I'm not taking care of someone else. I need to know who I am outside of the firehouse, outside of Chris's bedtime stories, outside of banana pudding and gentle touches."

Eddie's voice cracked. "So this is it? You're leaving us?"

"No," Monty said gently. "I'm just pressing pause. Because if I don't do this now... if I don't find peace in me, I'll keep breaking. And next time... I might not come back."

They both stared at him.

And in that silence, a hundred unsaid things passed between them.

Grief.

Love.

Regret.

Hope.

Finally, Monty stood up. Walked over. Pressed a hand to each of their shoulders.

"I'm not saying goodbye," he said, tears trailing down his cheeks now too. "I'm saying I need time."

Buck stood slowly, wrapping his arms around Monty tight—like he was afraid to let go.

Eddie pressed his forehead to Monty's and whispered, "We'll wait. No matter how long it takes."

Monty nodded.

"I know you will."

⸻

Because love didn't always look like staying.
Sometimes, it looked like stepping away so you could survive long enough to come back.

And Monty Smith?

Was choosing himself.

Finally.