Chapter 13
chapter
thirteen
I was up and moving before the dispatcher finished speaking, muscle memory taking over. Around me, my crew stirred into action with the practiced efficiency of people who'd done this dance a thousand times.
"Metro General?" Thompson said, grabbing his radio from the charger. "What are the odds it's something actually interesting?"
"Slim to none," Martinez replied, but he was already pulling on his boots. "Probably a stuck elevator or a door that won't open."
"Facilities emergency means they need us now," I said, checking my radio and clipping it to my belt. "Let's roll."
It wasn't until we were pulling out of the bay that my brain fully processed where we were headed. Metro General. Jimmy's hospital. Jimmy, who worked nights, who would be there right now, who I'd been thinking about more than was probably healthy since our dinner three days ago.
The thought sent a jolt of nervous energy through me that I immediately shoved down. This was a call. A job. Nothing more. The fact that I might see him was irrelevant.
Keep telling yourself that, Delgado.
"What's the over-under on this being an actual emergency versus someone who doesn't want to wait for maintenance?" Rodriguez asked from the back seat.
"Even money," Thompson said. "But hey, it's a nice night for a drive."
The drive to Metro General took eight minutes through the quiet city streets. Eight minutes for me to lecture myself about professionalism, about maintaining boundaries, about not letting personal feelings interfere with the job. Eight minutes that felt like an eternity.
We pulled up to the emergency department entrance, and I forced myself into lieutenant mode. Professional. Focused. In command.
"Alright, let's see what they've got for us," I said, grabbing the halligan bar from its mount. "Rodriguez, bring the flathead. Keep it simple until we know what we're dealing with."
The automatic doors slid open, and we walked into the familiar chaos of the ER. Bright lights, the smell of antiseptic, the constant background hum of medical equipment. I'd been here dozens of times bringing in patients, but tonight felt different. Tonight, I was looking for —
And there he was. At the nurses' station, updating a chart, looking tired but solid in his navy scrubs. Our eyes met across the department, and for just a moment, his professional mask slipped. Recognition. Warmth. That same nervous energy I was trying so hard to suppress.
I gave him the barest nod and mouthed "Hey" before forcing myself to focus on the charge nurse's explanation.
The lock was simple, the kind that failed spectacularly when the power hiccupped wrong.
Rodriguez and I had it open in thirty seconds — one quick pop with the halligan, metal on metal, the satisfying snap of a job well done.
My crew moved with automatic efficiency, but I was hyperaware of Jimmy watching from across the department, of the way my hands were steadier than they should have been for such a simple task.
When the charge nurse thanked us — genuine relief in her voice about accessing supplies that could mean the difference between life and death — I found myself introducing Jimmy to my crew.
Not because protocol demanded it, but because it felt important.
Because I wanted these men I trusted with my life to know the man who'd taken such good care of Cap.
I watched Thompson's expression shift when he heard Jimmy's name. The way the usual firefighter-to-nurse politeness transformed into something warmer, more genuine. Martinez perked up with interest. Rodriguez gave Jimmy an appraising look that seemed to find him acceptable.
This was the gauntlet every civilian had to run — firefighter scrutiny, the unspoken question of whether you understood what the job demanded. Whether you'd resent the missed dinners, the interrupted sleep, the thousand small ways the work claimed us.
But Jimmy didn't look intimidated. He looked honored. Like meeting my crew mattered.
It settled something I hadn't realized was a question.
"We should get going," I said, though part of me wanted to linger. "Let you guys get back to work."
My crew started heading for the exit, and I let them get a few steps ahead before I spoke again.
"Cap's doing better, by the way," I said quietly, stepping slightly closer to Jimmy. "Margaret said he's been sleeping through the night, and his appetite's coming back."
"That's great to hear," Jimmy replied, and I could see that he genuinely meant it. "I was wondering how he was doing."
"Thanks again for everything you did for him that night. For both of us."
"Just doing my job."
"No," I said, and suddenly it felt important that he understand this. "It was more than that."
We stood there for a moment, and I felt that same pull I'd experienced in his kitchen three nights ago. The urge to step closer, to reach out, to close the distance between us. But we were in his workplace, surrounded by his colleagues, and I was still in uniform with my crew waiting.
"Lieutenant?" Rodriguez's voice carried from the doorway, slightly amused. "We're good to roll."
The spell broke, and I stepped back, my professional mask sliding back into place. But not before I caught something in Jimmy's eyes that looked like regret — the same regret I was feeling.
"Be safe out there," he said.
"Always am," I replied, allowing myself a small smile.
As we walked back to the engine, I could feel my crew's eyes on me.
Thompson was grinning in a way that meant I was going to hear about this later.
Rodriguez looked thoughtful, like he was filing away information for future use.
Martinez just looked pleased, like he'd witnessed something entertaining.
"Nice guy," Thompson said as we climbed back into the engine, his tone carefully neutral.
"Yeah," I agreed, probably too quickly. "He is."
"Seems competent," Rodriguez added. "Cap's got good judgment about people."
"That he does."
Martinez, bless him, seemed oblivious to the undercurrents. "Cool that we got to meet him. Not often we get to put faces to the people who help our guys."
The drive back to Station 2 was quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts. But I could feel the weight of unspoken observations, the way my crew had noticed the way Jimmy and I looked at each other, the way I'd lingered to talk to him.
Back at the station, as we reset our equipment and returned to whatever we'd been doing before the call, Thompson appeared at my elbow.
"So," he said, his voice low enough that the others couldn't hear. "How long?"
"How long what?" I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant.
"How long have you been seeing the nurse?"
I could have denied it. Should have denied it. But Thompson had twenty-three years on the job and eyes that missed nothing.
"It's new," I said finally. "Really new."
He nodded thoughtfully. "He seems like a good guy. Cap obviously likes him, and Cap's not easy to impress."
"No, he's not."
"Just..." Thompson paused, choosing his words carefully. "Be careful, L.T. This job's hard enough without having to worry about someone who doesn't understand it."
"He understands it," I said, surprised by the certainty in my voice. "He gets it."
Thompson studied my face for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright then. Just wanted to make sure you knew we've got your back, whatever happens."
"I know you do."
He clapped me on the shoulder and headed back to the day room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering warmth of Jimmy's smile.
I settled into my office to finish the incident report — simple public assist, no injuries, no complications. But as I filled out the forms, my mind kept drifting back to that moment in the ER, to the way Jimmy had looked at me like I was the best part of his night.
For the first time in years, I found myself looking forward to getting off shift for reasons that had nothing to do with sleep or solitude.
I found myself thinking about calling him, maybe suggesting another dinner, maybe taking the risk of letting him see a little more of who I was behind the uniform.
Maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop being so careful all the time. Waiting for chance encounters at the hospital wasn't a plan. It was leaving things to fate, and I didn’t believe in fate. I believed in assessing a situation and acting. This situation required action.
My thumb hovered over his contact. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was a different kind of risk, a vulnerability that felt more dangerous than walking into a burning building. But the memory of his smile, of the quiet strength in his hands, pushed me forward.
Thanks for letting my crew feel useful. They get restless when they're not breaking things.
It was a safe opening. Acknowledging the professional context. I watched the three little dots appear and disappear, my breath held tight in my chest.
Jimmy
Anytime. Glad we could call in the professionals. Hope we didn't interrupt your night too much.
Our night was a biohazard-in-a-bag festival. Breaking down a door was a welcome change of pace.
Jimmy
Ha. I know that feeling. Noro Night is a special kind of hell.
The easy back-and-forth felt comfortable, familiar. I took a deep breath and typed the real reason I was texting.
When’s your next day off?
The question hung there, direct and unambiguous. It was a clear statement of intent. My intent.
The dots appeared again, slower this time. I could almost picture him on the other end, surprised, maybe trying to figure out if he was reading it right.
Jimmy
Tomorrow night- tonight?- whatever 12-16 hours from now is, is my Friday. I'm off for the next two.
Good. I’m taking you to dinner tonight. My treat. You can tell me more stories about what people bring to the ER in Ziploc bags.
I hit send, a feeling of pure, terrifying resolve settling over me. I had taken control. I had made a plan. And whatever happened next, it would be on my terms.
Jimmy
I'd like that. A lot.
A slow smile spread across my face. Maybe this was how it was supposed to feel.
Not like being taken care of, but like meeting someone halfway, an equal partnership built on mutual respect and a shared understanding of the beautiful, messy, chaotic world we lived in.
Maybe, just maybe, this was what hope felt like.