That morning was ordinary in every way except for the way he kissed me.
It was quick, but warm — the kind that lingers in your chest even after the door has closed. He smiled, already halfway into his uniform, and said, “See you for dinner.”

It was a promise. And I believed him.

By noon, the world had shifted. The phone call came in fragments: fire, trapped residents, heavy smoke. My mind clung to the word trapped, refusing to think about what that meant for him.

Later, I would learn the rest. How he’d found the elderly couple in the back bedroom, too frail to make it out on their own. How he’d refused to leave them, even when the ceiling groaned above and the heat grew unbearable. How, when the flames finally broke through, it was his team that carried them all out — unconscious, but alive.

And now he lies here. His face marked by the fire’s touch, his body still, his breaths measured by the quiet rhythm of the machines. The smell of antiseptic hangs in the air, but I still catch traces of smoke in his hair when I lean close.

I didn’t marry a hero. I married a man who helps without ever weighing the cost, who never once called himself brave. But the truth is, bravery doesn’t ask for a title — it just acts.

Every day since, I’ve sat beside him, holding his hand, speaking softly into the spaces where silence wants to settle. I tell him about the flowers blooming in the yard, about the dog waiting at the door, about how dinner will be ready when he comes home. I tell him the promise still stands — you said you’d see me for dinner.

And I’m still here, believing him.

So please, pray for him. Pray for all of them — the ones who walk into danger without expectation, and sometimes return not as they left, but with the quiet courage of those who gave everything they had.
Because heroes don’t always come back standing tall. Sometimes, they come back lying still — but fighting all the same.