Chapter 5 Shane #2
It barely counted as an excuse. We both knew it. The silence stretched between us, and I braced myself for her to tell me to leave, that this was weird, that she didn't need some random firefighter showing up at her apartment unannounced.
But even with all of that, she stepped aside and let me in.
The apartment was small. Cozy, but worn around the edges. A couch with a throw blanket that had seen better days. A bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks and framed photos. The smell of something floral, maybe lavender, underneath the general chaos of a lived-in space.
And at the kitchen table, a teenage girl with dark hair and her mother's eyes looked up at me like I was a home invader.
I'd done the math at the hospital when Maya had mentioned Zoe was thirteen. Maya was thirty. Which meant she'd had Zoe at seventeen. Someone was learning how to grow while raising someone else.
I'd thought about that more than I should have over the past few days and wondered what that must have been like.
She'd managed to finish school, get a degree, and build a career, all while raising a daughter on her own.
Most people I knew at seventeen were worried about prom and college applications.
Maya had been changing diapers and figuring out how to survive.
It explained a lot. The exhaustion. The fierce independence. The way she held herself like someone who'd learned early that no one was coming to save her.
"Zoe, this is Shane," Maya said, her voice carefully neutral. "He's a firefighter. He helped me when I got hurt at school."
Zoe didn't move, didn't smile. She just stared at me with the particular intensity of a thirteen-year-old deciding whether you were worth her time.
"Hey," I said. "Nice to meet you."
"Hi."
One syllable. Maximum suspicion.
I didn't blame her. Some strange guy shows up at your apartment with food for your mom? I'd be suspicious too.
"What are you working on?" I nodded toward the textbooks spread across the table.
"Homework."
"What subject?"
"Math."
I waited for more. Got nothing.
"Math was never my thing," I offered. "I was more of a science guy."
Zoe's expression didn't change. "Cool."
Maya was watching us with something between amusement and anxiety. I caught her eye and gave a small shrug. I'm trying.
She smiled, just barely.
We ate dinner at the small kitchen table, the three of us crowded around takeout containers. Maya kept apologizing for the mess, for not having real plates, for the state of the apartment. I told her my place was worse, which was true. Zoe watched me like a hawk, saying nothing, missing nothing.
I didn't try to win her over. Didn't crack jokes or put on a show. I just ate my lo mein and answered Maya's questions and let the awkwardness be what it was.
Some things you couldn't rush. Trust was one of them.
After dinner, Zoe retreated to her room with a pointed "Nice to meet you" that sounded more like a warning than a pleasantry. The door closed behind her with a definitive click.
Maya and I looked at each other.
"She's protective," Maya said. "She doesn't warm up to people quickly."
"She shouldn't. She's smart."
Something flickered in Maya's expression. Surprise, maybe. Like she'd expected me to be offended.
We moved to the couch. The apartment was quiet except for the muffled sound of music from Zoe's room. The space felt smaller now. More intimate.
"Can I ask you something?" Maya said.
"Anything."
"Why did you become a firefighter?"
I leaned back, considering the question. Most people asked it as small talk, expecting a simple answer. I wanted to help people. It runs in the family. The benefits are good.
But Maya was looking at me like she actually wanted to know.
"My dad," I said finally. "He was a firefighter. Engine 54, Manhattan. Thirty years on the job before he retired." I paused, the familiar ache settling in my chest. "He died of cancer. The kind that comes from breathing in too much smoke over too many years."
Maya's face softened. "I'm sorry."
"He loved the job. Even knowing what it cost him, he never regretted it.
" I looked down at my hands. "I wanted to understand why someone would give everything to something that was slowly killing them.
And then I started, and I got it. The brotherhood.
The purpose. Knowing that when everything goes wrong, you're the one people call.
" I shrugged. "It's the only thing that's ever made sense to me. "
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "That's how I feel about teaching."
"Yeah?"
"The kids who need someone in their corner.
The ones everyone else has given up on." Her voice was tired but fierce.
"Someone has to fight for them. Someone has to show up every single day, even when it's exhausting.
Even when the system is broken. Even when—" She stopped, shook her head. "Sorry. I get intense about this."
"Don't apologize." I held her gaze. "I like intense."
She looked away, but not before I caught the flush creeping up her neck.
We talked for another hour. About her students, about my crew.
About the parts of ourselves we didn't usually show to anyone.
She told me about Destiny, the girl with the broken zipper who wanted to research foster care.
I told her about the kid I couldn't save in Astoria, the one who still showed up in my nightmares sometimes.
I found myself saying things I never said. Things I usually kept locked away, buried under charm and deflection and the easy smile that kept everyone at arm's length.
With Maya, I didn't want to keep her at arm's length.
That was new. That was terrifying.
Most of my relationships, if you could even call them that, had been surface-level. Women who wanted the firefighter from the calendar, the hero from the headlines. I'd let them see exactly what they expected, and nothing more.
But Maya wasn't looking at me like I was a fantasy. She was looking at me like I was a person. Complicated. Flawed. Real.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn't want to be anything else. I didn't want to perform or charm or deflect. I just wanted to be the guy she was looking at.
That was new. And terrifying in a way I didn’t know how to handle.
When there was nothing left to say, I helped clear the dishes.
"You don't have to do that," Maya said.
"I know." I did it anyway.
The kitchen was small. We kept almost bumping into each other, reaching for the same container, brushing past in the narrow space between the counter and the stove.
Each time, I was hyperaware of her. The warmth of her.
The way she smelled—something clean and soft beneath the lingering scent of takeout.
When everything was put away, I was out of excuses to stay.
I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair. Maya walked me to the door. We stood there, neither of us moving.
"Thanks for dinner," she said. "You really didn't have to do that."
"I know." I still couldn't explain why I had.
I should go. I knew I should go.
"Can I come see you again?" The words were out before I could stop them.
Maya's expression shifted. Something closed off behind her eyes.
"Shane, I'm not—" She stopped and tried again. "I'm not really in a place to get involved with someone. I don't know if I will be." She took a breath, her eyes dropping to the floor. "And I can't let Zoe get attached to someone who's going to..."
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
Disappear. Someone who's going to disappear.
It wasn't a rejection. It was a warning. And underneath it, I heard what she was really saying: I've been hurt before. We both have. I can't risk it again.
"What about friends?" I said.
She blinked. "What?"
"Friends. I bring food sometimes. Maybe help with stuff around the apartment. We talk." I kept my voice light, even though my chest felt tight. "No pressure. No expectations. I could use a friend who doesn't know my stats or follow me on Instagram."
She stared at me like she was waiting for the catch. The angle. The thing that would prove I was just like everyone else.
"Just friends," I said again.
A long pause. The muffled bass from Zoe's room. The hum of the refrigerator. The sound of my own heartbeat, louder than it should have been.
"Okay," Maya said finally. "Friends."
It wasn't enthusiastic. It wasn't an invitation. But it wasn't a no, either.
I'd take it.
"Goodnight, Maya."
She smiled. Small, tentative, but real. The kind of smile that reached her eyes and made something shift in my chest.
"Goodnight, Shane."
I catalogued it. The way her voice softened on my name. The way the corners of her mouth lifted. The way she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the movement pulling her sweater tight across her chest.
I forced myself to look away, to take a step back, to remember that I'd just promised her friends and friends didn't stand in doorways thinking about what she'd look like pressed against them.
"Get some sleep," I managed.
"You too."
I turned and walked toward the elevator before I could do something stupid.
I made it to my truck before I looked back at her building.
Third floor. Light still on.
Just friends.
I'd meant it when I said it. Mostly.
But watching that light, I knew I was already in trouble.