Chapter 7 Shane
Shane
The friendship thing wasn’t working anymore.
Not because Maya was difficult or distant or any of the things I'd braced for. It was quite the opposite. She was letting me in, slowly, carefully, the way you open a door you’re not sure is safe. And every inch she gave me made me want more.
Three weeks of showing up, fixing things, bringing coffee, texting good morning—and not expecting anything back. I was doing exactly what I'd promised: being her friend. No pressure. No expectations. No moves that would make her regret trusting me.
The problem was that every time I saw her, the wanting sharpened.
The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was grading, a pen caught between her teeth, completely absorbed in some fourth grader's essay about their favorite family tradition.
The way she laughed like it surprised her, like joy was something she'd forgotten she was allowed to feel.
The way she looked at Zoe with a fierceness that made my chest ache, love, fear, and determination all tangled together in her eyes.
I’d said just friends.
I didn’t know how much longer I could keep pretending.
Last Saturday night, I brought groceries, made stir fry in her tiny kitchen while she graded papers at the table, and watched Zoe warm up enough to help me chop vegetables, laugh when the onions made me cry, and look at me like maybe I wasn’t a threat after all.
When I left, Maya walked me to the door. She stood close enough that I could smell her shampoo on my skin. Her eyes had dropped to my hands, lingered there for a moment too long, and when she looked back up, there was something in her expression that made my pulse kick.
I almost kissed her.
Almost closed the distance and cupped her face and showed her exactly how much "just friends" was killing me.
But I didn't. Because she'd asked for friendship, and that's what I was going to give her, even if it destroyed me in the process.
I drove home through streets I'd known my whole life, her face burned into my mind like an afterimage.
I was in so much trouble.
Engine 295 was in chaos that morning.
Truck maintenance. Equipment checks. The endless rotation of duties that kept a firehouse running between calls. I threw myself into it, hoping physical work would quiet my mind.
It didn't.
Brian found me in the apparatus bay, halfway through inspecting hose couplings I'd already inspected twice.
"You're smiling."
I looked up. "What?"
"You’re smiling. At hose couplings." He crossed his arms, leaning against the truck. "It's weird, man. You're freaking me out."
"I'm not smiling."
"You were. I saw it. This dopey little grin, like you were thinking about something that wasn't hose couplings." He narrowed his eyes. "Or someone."
I went back to the inspection. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"
"Nope. Finished my checks. Now I'm doing my other job, which is figuring out what or who has got my best friend smiling like that." Brian dropped onto the bumper beside me. "It's the teacher, isn't it?"
I didn't answer.
"The one you brought coffee to. The one you've been texting constantly. The one you keep disappearing to visit on your days off."
"I don't disappear."
"You literally told me last week you couldn't grab beers because you had to fix someone's cabinets." Brian raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you fix cabinets?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what's it like?"
I set down the coupling. Rubbed a hand over my face. "We're friends."
Brian stared at me. "Friends."
"That's what she wanted. That's what I offered."
"Why the hell would you do that?"
"Because that's what she needed." The words came out sharper than I meant them to. "She’s been through a lot, Brian. Bad relationship. Raising her kid alone. She's not looking for some guy to sweep in and complicate her life."
"So you're just going to what? Hang out and fix her cabinets forever? Bring her coffee and pretend you don't want more?"
I didn't have an answer for that.
Brian shook his head. "You've got it bad."
I picked up the coupling again—then paused. "You're one to talk. When are you gonna ask that ER doctor out?"
Brian stiffened. "Ava? It's not like that."
"You've been saying that for two years."
"Because it's true." He picked at a thread on his pants. "She's my neighbor. We're friends. That's it."
I raised an eyebrow. "Friends who have coffee every morning. Friends who talk on their balconies until 2 AM."
"How do you know about that?"
"You told me. Last Christmas. After your fourth beer."
Brian muttered something under his breath.
"Just saying." I set down the coupling. "You're giving me shit about Maya. Maybe take your own advice."
"It's different."
"How?"
Brian didn't answer. Just stood, brushing off his pants. "I should finish the rig check."
"You're avoiding the question."
"Yep." He started walking away, then paused. Looked back. "For what it's worth? The fact that you're doing it her way, not pushing, actually showing up without expecting something in return? That's not nothing. That's the opposite of nothing."
"So is two years of balcony conversations."
Brian snorted. "Goodnight, Dr. Phil."
"It's ten in the morning."
"Go inspect your couplings, asshole."
I grinned despite myself. It faded as he disappeared around the truck.
Two men who spent their lives running toward danger. Completely unprepared for the terror of standing still.
Captain Rodriguez’s wife showed up around noon with their kids.
Lucia and Marco burst through the bay doors like tiny tornadoes, screaming "Daddy!" at a volume that made the probies wince.
Rodriguez caught them both. One in each arm, like he'd been doing it his whole life. Lucia wrapped around his neck. Marco grabbed his face with sticky hands. And Rodriguez, this man who commanded a firehouse and ran into burning buildings and had seen things that would break most people, melted.
"There's my monsters." He pressed kisses to both their heads. "You being good for Mama?"
"Marco ate glue," Lucia announced.
"Did not!"
"Did too. I saw you."
"It was an accident!"
His wife, Maria, reached them, shaking her head.
"It was not an accident. He did it because Tyler dared him.
" She kissed Rodriguez's cheek, quick and easy, the kind of gesture that held two decades of marriage.
"I brought enough for everyone. Pernil, rice and beans, tostones.
The real stuff, not whatever Brian's attempting to cook today. "
"Hey," Brian called from across the bay. "I heard that."
"You were supposed to." Maria winked at him, then turned back to Rodriguez. "There's flan in the cooler. Don't let Torres eat it all."
"You're an angel."
"I know." She smiled at him. He smiled back. And for a moment, right there in the middle of the apparatus bay with kids squirming in his arms and his wife looking at him like he was everything, Rodriguez looked like the luckiest man in the world.
I watched from across the bay.
I was reminded of what I wanted, of why I’d stopped sleeping around in the first place.
I wanted this. Not someday. Not in theory. I wanted the chaos and the sticky hands and the wife who showed up with enough food for the whole crew. I wanted someone who looked at me like I was home.
I thought about Maya. Then Zoe. About how it would feel to have them show up at the station with lunch—Zoe rolling her eyes at whatever Brian said, while Maya kissed my cheek. I thought about coming home to them after a long shift. About being the one they waited for.
I held onto the image and let it stay.
It felt less like a daydream and more like a direction.
The briefing started at two sharp.
Captain Rodriguez stood at the front of the room, his face grim enough to make everyone straighten up. Behind him, a whiteboard showed photos of four burned buildings. Schools. All of them.
"Queens arson investigation update," he said. "The fire marshal's office has confirmed what we suspected. These are connected."
The room went quiet.
"Three schools in three months. All elementary and middle schools. All in our district." Rodriguez pointed to the photos one by one. "Woodside, Laurelton. And last week, P.S. 89 in Rego Park."
I studied the photos. The blackened shells of buildings where kids were supposed to learn. Where teachers like Maya spent their days trying to make a difference.
"Same accelerant pattern at each site," Rodriguez continued. "Same message spray-painted on exterior walls before ignition." He tapped the whiteboard, where someone had written the words in block letters: LET THE SYSTEM BURN.
"A profile's emerging. Young. Male. Likely connected to the school system somehow. Former student, maybe. Someone with a grudge." Rodriguez's jaw tightened. "And he's escalating. The gaps between fires are getting shorter. Whatever he's building toward, it’s not over."
Brian shifted beside me. "Any leads on who?"
"NYPD's working it. Cross-referencing expelled students, aged-out foster kids, anyone with a documented grievance against schools in the district." Rodriguez shook his head. "It's a long list. These systems fail a lot of people. And some of them don’t forget it.”
The briefing continued. Patrol schedules. Coordination with the fire marshal. The protocol for responding to school fires, which now included immediate arson investigation.
I barely heard the rest.
I thought about P.S. 147. Maya’s school. About the fourth graders with their construction paper projects and their essays about dogs versus cats. I thought about Maya staying late to grade papers alone in an empty building.
The fear was sudden and specific. It felt like a cold fist in my chest that wouldn't loosen.
I had to tell her. To make sure she was paying attention. To make sure she was safe.
Saturday night felt different.