24. Wes
WES
Ikeep my hands busy with the hose coupling, working the threads with more attention than they deserve.
The metal's cold against my palms, familiar weight that usually settles something restless in me.
Not today. Today it's just something to do with my hands while I pretend I'm not watching what's happening twenty feet away.
Tate's got that look on his face. The one he gets when he's decided something matters more than it should.
His shoulders are angled toward her, body language open in a way that makes my jaw clench.
And she's... Christ, she's actually listening to him.
Not the polite nodding she does with most people, but real listening.
The kind where she forgets to keep her walls up.
I coil another section of hose, the motion automatic.
The rubber slides through my fingers like muscle memory, but my attention keeps drifting back to them.
They're standing closer than they need to, talking in voices too low for me to catch the words.
Whatever he's saying, it's working. Her posture's shifted from that defensive hunch she always carries to something softer, more open.
"Damn it," I mutter under my breath.
The coupling slips in my grip, clattering against the concrete floor with a sharp metallic ring.
Brody glances up from where he's sitting with Eli, just a quick flick of his eyes before he returns to whatever they're building.
The kid doesn't miss much, even when he seems completely absorbed.
Reminds me of myself at that age—always aware of the adults, always listening for the shift in tone that meant trouble was coming.
I pick up the coupling and get back to work, but my gaze drifts again.
Jordyn's hand rests on the tool bench, fingers relaxed for once instead of curled into defensive fists.
Tate's saying something that makes her mouth quirk up at the corner—not quite a smile, but close enough to count.
When was the last time I saw her look like that?
Like maybe the world wasn't actively trying to screw her over?
The answer sits in my chest like a stone. Never. I've never seen her look that relaxed, that... hopeful.
And that's the problem, isn't it? Because I've been watching her longer than I want to admit.
Cataloguing the tension in her shoulders when she thinks no one's looking.
The way she checks exits in every room, positions herself between Brody and potential threats.
How she deflects compliments like they're personal attacks, how she hoards resources like someone who's learned not to count on tomorrow.
I know these things because I've been paying attention. More attention than a guy who's supposed to be keeping his distance has any right to pay.
The hose fights me as I work it into a proper coil, kinked and stubborn. Like everything else in my life lately. I give it a sharp tug, and the whole section comes loose, unraveling across the bay floor in a tangle of black rubber.
"Smooth." The word comes out harsher than I meant it to.
From across the bay, I see movement in my peripheral vision.
Dean's emerged from his office, but he's not heading anywhere specific.
Just standing in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, coffee mug in hand.
His gaze sweeps the bay floor with the methodical precision of someone conducting an inventory, but I know better.
Dean doesn't do casual observation. Every look is calculated, every pause deliberate.
His attention settles on the tool bench where Tate and Jordyn are still deep in conversation.
The pause is barely perceptible, but I catch it.
The way his grip shifts on the mug handle.
How his weight redistributes against the doorframe.
Dean's thinking, processing, filing away information for later use.
I follow his line of sight and feel something twist in my gut. Tate's hand has moved closer to Jordyn's on the bench. Not touching, but close enough that the space between them feels intentional. Charged.
Dean takes a sip of his coffee, the motion unhurried, but his eyes never leave them.
He's cataloguing this moment the same way he catalogues fire patterns and structural weaknesses.
Looking for the story underneath the surface, the chain of events that led to this particular configuration of people and emotions.
The realization hits me like cold water. Dean sees what I see. The shift happening right in front of us, the way the dynamic in this station is changing whether we acknowledge it or not. Jordyn and Brody aren't just visitors anymore. They're not even just people we help out when they need it.
They're becoming part of this. Part of us.
And Dean's already three steps ahead, thinking through implications and consequences while the rest of us are still pretending this is temporary.
I abandon the hose where it lies and cross to the equipment lockers, needing distance from whatever silent assessment is happening.
But even with my back turned, I can feel the weight of observation.
Dean watching Tate and Jordyn. Me watching all of them.
Everyone pretending we're not seeing what we're seeing, not feeling what we're feeling.
The locker door swings open with a metallic squeal that slices through the bay's ambient noise. Inside, turnout gear hangs in neat rows, everything in its designated place. Controlled. Organized. Nothing like the mess of emotions currently tangling up this firehouse.
Something's changing. Has already changed. And none of us are talking about it.
I give the hose one last, vicious tug, snapping the final kink out of the line.
The rubber slaps against the concrete, a satisfying thwack that does nothing to quiet the noise in my head.
It’s not just Tate. It’s never been just about him.
He’s just the one who makes it obvious, puts a name to the tension that’s been building since day one.
The truth is, I saw her before any of them.
Not just saw her, but saw her. The day of the fire alarm, when she burst out of the school doors, a wild animal clawing her way through the herd of panicked teachers.
Her face was a mask of sheer terror, eyes scanning, mouth forming a name no one could hear over the sirens.
I watched her try to fight her way back into a burning building for that kid.
That’s the image that sticks. Not the tired mom in the firehouse, not the guarded woman who flinches at a kind word.
That cornered, desperate fighter. That’s the one I clocked.
That’s the one I haven’t been able to shake.
I finish coiling the hose, stacking it with angry precision onto the truck bed. It’s what I do. I handle things. I see a problem, I fix it. A loose coupling gets tightened. A frayed wire gets replaced. A fire gets put out. It’s clean. Definitive.
People aren’t like that. Jordyn isn’t like that.
She’s a goddamn mess of frayed wires and broken parts, held together with stubbornness and spit.
And I can’t fix her. I can’t even get close without running into someone else.
Tate, with his calm voice and easy patience.
Dean, with his cold, assessing stare that misses nothing.
It’s a crowded field, and I don't do crowds.
My knuckles are white where I grip the truck.
I’m good with my hands. I can dismantle and reassemble an engine blindfolded.
I know how things are supposed to fit together.
But this? This three-ring circus of unspoken feelings and careful observations?
I don’t have the parts for it. I don’t know how it works.
And what burns deepest, what sits like a rock in my gut, is the simple, ugly fact that I don’t share well. Never have.
I grab a K12 saw from its rack and haul it over to a workbench, the weight familiar in my hands.
The starter cord has been sticking, a slight hesitation that could mean the difference between a few seconds and a minute on a scene.
I pop the housing off, the plastic groaning in protest. The guts of the machine are a greasy, intricate mess of wires and metal. Perfect. Something I can actually fix.
A shadow falls over the workbench. I don't look up, already knowing who it is. Brody stands there, silent, his attention locked on the exposed engine. His fascination with how things work is one of the few things about him that makes perfect sense to me. He isn't looking at me, just at the problem.
I use a wrench to loosen a retaining bolt, the metal scraping as it gives. The assembly inside is tight. I need another hand to hold the clutch in place while I reset the spring. I glance over at the kid. He's watching my every move, his head tilted. He doesn't fidget. He just observes.
I grab a T-handle wrench from the toolbox and hold it out to him, handle first.
"Here."
His eyes flick from the saw to the tool, then to my face. He hesitates for only a second before his small hand closes around the grip.
"Put the end on that nut right there." I point with my chin. "And hold it steady. Don't let it turn."
He doesn't ask why. He just does it. His small frame leans into the task, knuckles white as he grips the tool. I watch his focus narrow, the world shrinking down to this one piece of machinery. There’s no chatter, no nonsense.
Just the job. I slide the new spring into place, the coil tight against my thumb.
It resists, but the bolt Brody holds doesn't budge.
"Good. Hold it."
With a final push, the assembly slides home. It connects with a solid, satisfying click. The sound cuts through the low hum of the station.
I pull my hands back, wiping grease on a rag.
Brody keeps holding the wrench for a beat longer, making sure.
Then, slowly, he straightens up. He looks from the repaired saw to my face, and a smile cracks across his features.
It isn't big. It's barely there, just a quick upward pull at the corner of his mouth.
But it's real. It hits his eyes, which light up with a flicker of pure, uncomplicated success.
The expression is gone as fast as it came. But I saw it. And something inside my chest gives a hard, violent kick, like an engine turning over on the first try.
The smile vanishes. Brody pulls the wrench off the nut and sets it on the bench with a soft clink, his focus already drifting. The moment fractures, gone. But the image of it stays, burned behind my eyes like a flashbulb.
I straighten up, my back protesting the crouch over the saw.
I drag the greasy rag across my hands, smearing the oil instead of cleaning it.
My gaze cuts across the bay, landing on her by instinct.
She’s still with Tate. He says something, and her head tilts.
That guarded tension in her shoulders eases by a fraction.
The sight twists something low in my gut.
I pivot away, fixing my stare on a dark stain on the concrete.
Oil. Or maybe hydraulic fluid. It’s a problem with a known solution.
Unlike the woman across the room and her quiet kid.
They are a unique kind of spill. One that spreads, seeps into the cracks, and does not clean up with a bag of absorbent.
This entire situation lacks a clear boundary. Too many variables. Tate and his quiet crusade. Dean and his silent calculations. Her, with walls so high it would take a battering ram to knock them down. And the kid, who just looked at me like I hung the moon because I let him hold a wrench.
It’s a sloppy, emotional entanglement I have no business being near. My life is structured. Predictable. Call, response, solution. There are protocols for a reason. They keep people from getting hurt. There is no protocol for this.
I toss the rag onto the workbench. It lands with a limp thud. I should walk away. Let Tate handle it. Let Dean manage it. This is not my problem.
But the truth hits me then. Not like a revelation, not a warm glow of acceptance. It lands like a slab of concrete, heavy and unavoidable. I can tell myself to back off. List every reason this is a bad idea.
It does not matter.
I am not walking away from them.
The thought brings no comfort. It does not feel right or noble. It feels like a lock clicking into place, the kind you do not have a key for. Whatever this becomes, it’s going to get complicated. I will be right here.