Chapter 27
chapter
twenty-seven
"L.T.?" Martinez's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "You good?"
I realized I'd been staring out the passenger window for the entire three-minute response, not doing my usual pre-arrival assessment. Thompson was giving me a look from the back seat that suggested he'd noticed, too.
"Fine," I said quickly, grabbing my radio. "Just thinking through positioning."
But I wasn't fine. I was the opposite of fine. I was a woman who'd finally found the courage to be vulnerable with someone, only to discover that vulnerability came with a price I wasn't sure I could afford to pay.
The kitchen fire turned out to be a grease fire that had already burned itself out by the time we arrived. Fifteen minutes of ventilation, a quick inspection for extension, and we were clearing the scene. Routine. Simple. The kind of call that usually left me feeling satisfied with our efficiency.
Instead, I felt hollow.
"Nice work, everyone," I said as we backed into the bay at Station 2. "Thompson, make sure the exhaust fan on the engine gets cleaned. Martinez, I want the attack line repacked and pressure-tested."
Standard post-call routine, but my crew exchanged glances. I was being more formal than usual, more distant. They knew something was off, but they were too professional to call me on it in front of the others.
Back in the station, I tried to lose myself in paperwork. Incident reports, training schedules, equipment logs — all the administrative busy work that came with the lieutenant's bars. But every few minutes, my phone would buzz with a text from Jimmy.
Jimmy
Hope the shift is going well. Miss you.
Thinking about you. Can't wait to see you tomorrow.
Love you, beautiful.
Sweet messages. Normal messages. The kind of things he'd been sending me for weeks. But now they felt different. Careful. Like he was trying to paper over the crack that had opened between us with forced normalcy.
I stared at the latest message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
What was I supposed to say? Love you too, but I'm terrified that wanting children makes me incompatible with the man I'm falling for?
Thanks for the sweet text, but can we talk about why you looked like I'd suggested we join a cult when I mentioned kids?
Instead, I typed:
Love you too. See you soon.
Safe. Noncommittal. Exactly the kind of careful response that was becoming our new normal.
"L.T." Thompson appeared in the doorway of the office, holding two cups of coffee. "You look like you could use this."
I accepted the mug gratefully. Thompson had been my bar man for two years, and he could read my moods better than most people could read a book.
"Anything bothering you?" he asked, settling into the chair across from my desk.
"No, just tired." The lie came easily, but Thompson's raised eyebrow suggested he wasn't buying it.
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." He took a sip of his coffee, studying me with the kind of direct assessment he usually reserved for potentially dangerous situations. "You've been off all shift. Want to talk about it?"
Part of me did want to talk about it. Thompson was married, he had kids, two daughters he adored. He might understand the weight of realizing you wanted something fundamental that your partner might not be able to give you.
But Thompson was also my subordinate, and this was a firehouse. Personal problems stayed personal, especially for female officers who couldn't afford to be seen as "too emotional."
"Just some stuff with Cap," I said, which wasn't entirely a lie. Cap's declining health was a constant worry, even if it wasn't what was keeping me up at night right now.
Thompson nodded, accepting the deflection. "How's he doing?"
"Better, actually. Saw him yesterday, and he seemed almost like his old self. Complaining about the hospital food, giving me grief about my paperwork. Margaret said his appetite's been good."
That, at least, was true. Cap had seemed stable during our visit yesterday, more alert and energetic than he'd been in weeks. It was the one bright spot in an otherwise confusing and emotionally exhausting few days.
"That's good news," Thompson said. "Man's too stubborn to go down easy."
"Yeah, he is."
We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, drinking our coffee and listening to the familiar sounds of the station — Rodriguez and O'Malley arguing about something on Truck 12, the distant hum of equipment being cleaned and checked.
"You know," Thompson said eventually, "whatever's eating at you, it'll work itself out. You're too smart and too stubborn to let anything keep you down for long."
I smiled, the first genuine smile I'd managed all day. "Thanks, Thompson. I appreciate that."
"Just speaking the truth, L.T. Now, you want to tell me why you've been checking your phone every thirty seconds like you're expecting either really good news or really bad news?"
I glanced down at my phone, which I'd unconsciously placed face-up on my desk so I could see any incoming messages. Another text from Jimmy had come in while we were talking.
Jimmy
Off work in an hour. Want me to pick up dinner on the way over?
The message was perfectly normal, perfectly sweet. So why did it make my chest feel tight with something that might have been dread?
"Just coordinating with someone," I said, which was technically true.
Thompson gave me another one of his assessing looks but didn't push. "Well, whoever it is, they're lucky to have you worrying about them."
If only it were that simple.
Two hours later, I was standing in my apartment bathroom, the morning sun shining through the window, staring at my reflection and trying to figure out how to act normal when Jimmy arrived.
We hadn't seen each other since the morning after Amelia's accident, when I'd told him I wanted children and watched something fundamental shift in his expression.
Since then, we'd texted constantly, talked on the phone twice, and made plans for tonight like nothing had changed. But everything had changed, hadn't it? The easy intimacy we'd built over the past few weeks now felt fragile, complicated by unspoken questions about futures that might not align.
My phone buzzed with his signature knock at the door. I took a deep breath, checked my reflection one more time, and went to let him in.
"Hey, beautiful," he said, leaning in to kiss me softly. He smelled like the hospital — that familiar mix of antiseptic and laundry detergent — and carried a bag from our favorite Thai place.
"Hey yourself," I replied, accepting the kiss and trying to ignore the way it felt different. Not bad, just... careful. Like we were both being more cautious with each other.
"How was your shift?" he asked, following me into the kitchen and starting to unpack the food with the easy familiarity of someone who'd done this dozens of times.
"Quiet. One kitchen fire, couple of EMS calls. Nothing dramatic." I grabbed plates from the cabinet, grateful for something to do with my hands. "How about you? Busy night?"
"Moderately. Had a guy come in convinced his ingrown toenail was a flesh-eating bacteria. Took three different medical professionals and a PowerPoint presentation to convince him otherwise."
I laughed, and for a moment it felt normal. This was us — sharing stories from our respective wars, finding humor in the chaos of emergency services. This was the easy rhythm we'd fallen into, the comfortable domesticity that had made me think we could build something lasting together.
But then Jimmy started telling me about his patient, and I found myself studying his face, looking for some sign of how he really felt about our conversation. Did he want children? Had he ever thought about it? Was my admission a dealbreaker he was still figuring out how to address?
"Izzy?" His voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "You okay? You seem distracted."
"Sorry," I said quickly. "Just tired. It's been a long few days."
He nodded, accepting the explanation, but I caught the way his eyes lingered on my face. He was reading me the same way I was reading him, both of us looking for clues about what the other was really thinking.
We ate dinner (breakfast, whatever you wanted to call this post-shift meal), making small talk about work, the weather, a documentary he'd watched about sourdough starters.
Normal couple conversation, but underneath it all was this new awareness, this careful distance that neither of us was acknowledging.
Afterwards, we settled on my couch to watch a movie, and I became acutely aware of how we positioned ourselves. Usually, Jimmy would pull me against his side, and I'd curl up with my head on his shoulder. Tonight, we sat close but not touching, each of us claiming our own space on the couch.
The movie was some action thriller that required no emotional investment, but I found myself barely following the plot.
Instead, I was thinking about Amelia Patterson, about the way it had felt to hold her small, trusting weight in my arms. About the realization that had cemented itself in my soul: I wanted that.
I wanted bedtime stories and scraped knees and first days of school.
I wanted the messy, complicated, beautiful reality of being responsible for someone else's happiness.
But I wanted it with Jimmy. And Jimmy... Jimmy had looked at me like I'd suggested we jump off a bridge together when I'd told him.
"This is a terrible movie," Jimmy said during a particularly ridiculous action sequence.
"Yeah, it really is," I agreed, though I couldn't have summarized the plot if my life depended on it.
"Want to watch something else?"
"Sure."
But instead of reaching for the remote, he turned to face me on the couch. "Izzy, are we okay?"