Chapter 2
CHEVY
Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. Running toward a fire while sane people run away? Piece of cake. Splinting a broken leg on the side of a mountain? No problem. What's hard is walking into a firehouse where every guy on shift looks like he just got hit by Cupid's arrow.
Aiden's leaning against the kitchen counter with his phone pressed to his ear, doing that low laugh—the one that means Beth said something only they think is funny.
An inside joke or a flirty innuendo. I don't know the details and I don't want to.
The man is grinning like a lovesick wolf.
I mean, he found a woman who thinks his protein shake obsession is "endearing" instead of "psychotic. " That's love.
Perry's reorganizing the kitchen cabinets.
Again. This is his third system this month.
But he's humming to himself…and I know exactly why.
Raina's coming by later to "check the truck's engine.
" Right. The thing is running fine since the last time she fixed it because she’s a fantastic mechanic, and she's already inspected twice this month.
They're not fooling anyone, but they think they are, and that's the cutest part.
And then there's Jasper, sitting on the couch texting with both thumbs and a grin so dopey it would've gotten him roasted off the face of the earth six months ago. But now? Nobody says a word. Even I have to admit, it’s fucking adorable.
"Yo, Jasper," I call out, dropping into the chair across from him. "What's the latest? She pick the napkins yet?"
He doesn't even look up. "She's narrowed it down to three. Linen, cotton blend, or—"
"The fact that you know that is blowing my mind."
He finally glances at me, but he's still smiling. The man is immune to mockery now. Love has made him bulletproof. "I’m just glad she’s still on board with marrying me. I’ll support whatever vision she has."
"You're supporting a mood board, brother."
"You're just jealous," he says.
“Duh! Those napkins do get a lot more attention than me.”
Jasper chuckles.
Over by the cubbies, even the Captain checks his phone, and I catch it—that quiet, private smile.
The one that softens his whole face in a way that would be jarring if you didn't know the context.
Cap's not a smiler. He's the strong, silent type who communicates primarily through nods and meaningful stares.
But Sloane's got him out here looking as if he might burst out in song.
Okay, that might be a bit much, but you get the picture.
I clap my hands together and address the room. "Alright, is anyone in this building not in love right now? Geez, is Lance around?”
“It’s his day off,” Perry says.
“Errrgh. Just me then? Cool cool cool."
Perry closes the cabinet and looks over his shoulder. "Maybe if you stopped scaring women off with your—"
"My what? Charm? Incredible body? Decadent enchiladas?"
"Your inability to have a serious conversation that lasts more than thirty seconds," Perry finishes.
"Hey, I can be serious." I furrow my brow. "I'm just saying, why be serious when you can be fun? Fun is underrated. Fun keeps people young. Jasper and Aiden used to be fun."
Jasper and Aiden don’t even give me the courtesy of a retort.
They just roll their eyes. And Perry shakes his head.
He's laughing. They always laugh. That's the thing about being the funny guy—everyone's entertained, nobody's worried about you, and the spotlight stays exactly where you want it: on the surface.
I grab coffee from the pot and lean against the counter. The kitchen smells like the maple bacon Aiden made earlier, mixed with the lemon cleaner Perry uses on everything. It's familiar. Comfortable. Home, in the way that stations are for career firemen.
I think about last week. When Jasper proposed here at the station. It was a great day. Fawn cried, Jasper choked up, and we all cheered. Then I drove home.
And it was quiet. My truck was quiet. My apartment was quiet.
I stood in front of the open fridge in my boxers eating cold enchiladas straight from the Tupperware, scrolling through my phone with nobody to text. No one waiting up. No one asking how the night went. Just me and the cold light of the refrigerator on my face.
I'm happy for these guys. Every single one of them. I swear I’m not bitter.
It's just—watching them all find their person, one after another, like some kind of chain reaction of love detonating around the station?
It's really done a number on me. Made me think about things I've never really thought about before.
And I don't know what to do with that.
"You know what? I'm starting a petition," I announce to no one in particular. "Mandatory single-guy hours at the station. No heart-eyes. No lovey smiles. No discussions about napkin fabrics. Just weights, coffee, and emotional repression. Like the good old days."
They all scoff, and Aiden, finally off the phone, drops into the chair next to me. He tilts his head in that way which means he's about to play matchmaker again.
Here we go.
"So," he starts. "Beth's friend Camille—"
"No."
"You didn't let me finish."
"Didn't need to. I know where this is going. You're gonna say 'she's great,' Beth's gonna say 'you'd love her,' and then one of us will have a schedule conflict, a kid thing, a work emergency, and it won't happen. Again."
He opens his mouth to argue, but I hold up a hand.
"Brother, we've been doing this dance for months. You and Beth hype up this mystery woman as if she's some kind of mythical creature—"
"She's a sweet, attractive third-grade teacher."
"—and every single time we try to make it happen, the universe steps in and says 'not today.' I'm done fighting the universe, man."
Aiden leans back, studying me. "I think you’re both just stubborn and a little nervous."
"Maybe." I shrug. "But if fate wanted us to meet, it would've happened by now. I think the message is pretty clear. I'm filing her under 'not meant to be' and moving on."
He holds his hands up. “Okay, okay.” But he still gives me that half amused, half something that says he sees more than I want him to. Aiden's annoyingly wise for a guy whose main hobby is baking.
"Your call," he says. Then, quieter: "But for the record, I think you'd both be great together.”
That night, after I've showered and eaten leftover chicken and rice for dinner, I flop onto my bed.
I begin my evening scrolling on my phone.
A girl I used to hook up with in Bozeman just posted engagement photos. Her smile’s so big her face seems like it might split in half, and the guy has his arm around her as if he can't believe his luck. Good for them.
I scroll to a buddy from the academy who posted anniversary photos—three years. The caption says, Can't imagine doing life without you. I double-tap it because I'm a decent person.
My thumb continues to move, to a guy from my high school who just had a baby. His profile picture is him holding this tiny pink bundle with tears streaming down his face, and the caption is just a single word: Everything.
I put the phone face down on my chest.
Everybody's moving forward, building something, pairing off like the ark is leaving and I missed the boarding call.
I'm a thirty-four year old man with a face that gets me phone numbers and the assumption that there’s not much else underneath. And my heart wants more than my brain knows how to ask for. I’m standing perfectly still while the world couples up around me.
I think about my dad…not with the anger I used to carry, that burned out years ago, now replaced by something harder to name.
He left when I was four. Packed up and disappeared.
No goodbye, no explanation, no forwarding address.
I spent years wanting him back, then years hating him, then years being grateful he was gone because Mami was better without him.
But what if it's genetic? What if there's something about the Torres men that makes us end up alone?
My dad couldn't commit, couldn't love someone enough to stick around.
And my mom—my incredible, selfless, hardworking mom—never tried again after he left.
Never dated, never let anyone close. As if one heartbreak was enough to shut the whole thing down forever.
So what am I? Some combination of both of them? Built for loving people, but not built for being loved back? Too similar to my dad to stay, too much like my mom to try?
I'm just saying…it doesn’t feel promising.
I pick my phone back up because self-reflection after midnight is a dangerous game, and I'd rather watch a stranger make a twelve-layer cake on social media than sit with whatever that was.
That's when the ad appears.
Mountain Mates: Forever.
I almost scroll past.
Not based on your photo.
I tap on it. Slowing down as you pass a car wreck: you don't want to look, but your eyeballs have other plans.
The site doesn’t seem…desperate. And the anonymous tier matches you on personality alone. You talk first and only meet up if things are working.
Bonus, that they have a retreat they run just for the purpose of meeting.
No photos means no one swiping right on account of my jawline and expecting a human Ken doll with the emotional depth of a kiddie pool.
No one assuming I'm a player, or stupid, or not serious, or any of the other labels that got slapped on me somewhere around puberty and have been stuck there ever since.
For once someone could get to know the actual me. The guy who calls his mom every chance he gets. The guy who watches rom-coms alone and reads romance novels on his phone during slow shifts and would deny it to his grave if any of the crew found out.
The guy who's terrified he's going to end up like his father (or like his mother) and doesn't know which one scares him more.
Every woman I've ever dated flashes through my mind, a highlight reel of shallowness…
the ones who liked how I looked next to them, the ones who laughed at my jokes, but never bothered to find out what was underneath them, the ones who stuck around for the fun and left at the first whiff of maturity.
That hollow feeling after casual hookups used to be fine, and now just...isn’t. It’s like eating junk food when your body's craving something nourishing. It fills you up for a minute, and then you're emptier than before, and even a little sick.
How would it feel to have someone fall for my words instead of my pecs?
I press the sign-up button.
The page loads and I sit up in bed as if I'm about to take an exam. Username. I need a username. Something that's me but not, you know, obviously me.
I type Wild@Heart.
Because wildfire is what I fight and what I feel, and if that's too poetic for a firefighter from Bozeman, well—too bad.
The profile questions come next. I answer them, deleting and retyping like every word is going on my permanent record.
Favorite way to spend a Friday night? Cooking something fun while music plays too loud in the kitchen. Or a movie on the couch. Anything really, if you’re with the right person.
What are you looking for? I stare at the cursor blinking. I start typing something casual and safe, then delete it. Then I type something funny, and add: Someone who wants to know the real me. Not the version people assume I am. Someone who laughs easily, but isn't afraid of the heavy stuff.
There are a few more and then…done. I hit submit.
I’m a damn firefighter and a dating profile has me sweating.
If Aiden ever finds out about this, I will have to run away. If the whole crew finds out? I'm faking my own death and moving to Argentina. Whatever it takes.
I plug in my phone, pull the blanket up and close my eyes.
Something feels different. Like I just opened a door I didn't know was there, and I can't see what's on the other side yet…but there’s definitely light coming through.