2. Mike
Chapter two
Mike
T he smell of smoke still clings to my clothes as I stand near the fire truck, watching Becky huddle with her friends.
She’s shaking, her face pale beneath the smudges of soot. Her wide eyes flick toward the shop and back to the street like she’s searching for something—or someone.
I can’t stop looking at her.
There’s something about Becky.
Maybe it’s the way she tries to hold it together even when the weight of the world is pressing on her. Or maybe it’s her voice, soft and steady, even as she asked about the damage to her shop. Whatever it is, it’s got my attention—more than it should.
I’ve seen this kind of devastation before—fires tearing apart people’s lives—but tonight feels different. Personal. And I barely know her.
Before I can shake the thought, a man strolls up to her. Tall, wiry, with a confident stride that immediately sets me on edge. He’s got that slick kind of charm I can spot a mile away, and I don’t like the way his hand lingers on her arm. Becky stiffens, glancing toward me for a second, and something flashes across her face—relief? No, more like discomfort.
“Becky,” the man says, his voice oozing concern. “I just heard about the fire. Are you okay?”
Her answer is quiet, almost hesitant. “I’m fine, Paul.”
Paul. The name makes my jaw tighten. I’ve heard and seen enough to know he’s trouble.
“You sure?” he presses, stepping closer. “You look like you could use a break. Why don’t you let me help? I’ve got room at my place. You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone.”
“No,” Becky says quickly, her tone firm despite the tremble in her voice. “I’ve got it covered. Thanks, though.”
Paul’s smile tightens. “Come on, Becky. You don’t have to be so stubborn. I can help you. I want to help you.”
I can’t stand it anymore. I step closer, clearing my throat loud enough to draw their attention. Paul turns, his eyes narrowing slightly when he sees me. Becky looks up at me too, her expression unreadable.
“She said she’s got it covered,” I say evenly, my voice calm but firm.
Paul’s gaze flicks between us, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at Becky—like she’s some kind of prize to be won—makes me want to plant myself between them. Eventually, he backs off, muttering something under his breath before walking away.
“You okay?” I ask Becky once he’s out of earshot.
She nods, but her shoulders are still tense. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice so soft I almost miss it.
Before I can respond, her friends pull her back into their circle, and I let them.
She’s safe with them. I need to head back to the station.
***
The firehouse is quiet when I get back, most of the crew wrapping up for the night.
The Junction Falls Firehouse is more than just a station—it’s a cornerstone of the community, a place where bravery meets camaraderie and where the town’s most dedicated gather, ready to protect and serve.
The station is located just a few blocks from the town square, close enough to respond quickly to emergencies but far enough from the bustle to allow for quiet moments of respite. A red-painted hydrant stands near the sidewalk, often serving as a meeting spot for kids who love to watch the fire trucks roll out on a call.
Stepping inside, the firehouse smells of leather, smoke, and fresh coffee—a mix of warmth and work. Past the garage, a set of double doors leads to the main living quarters, where we rest, eat, and wait for the next call.
I grab a shower, and the hot water washes away some of the tension in my muscles. When I step out, Burt’s already lounging on the couch, flipping through channels on the TV. He glances up when I walk in, his grizzled face breaking into a grin.
“Rough one?” he asks, nodding toward the soot-streaked jacket I’m shrugging off.
“Yeah,” I reply, dropping onto the couch next to him. “Small shop fire. No injuries, but the owner’s place is out of commission for a while.”
Burt lets out a low whistle. “Tough break. That florist, okay?”
“Yep. Becky,” I say, her name slipping out before I can stop it. I clear my throat, trying to sound casual.
“Ah,” Burt says with a knowing smirk. “You looked like you were paying a little extra attention out there.”
“Drop it,” I mutter, grabbing the remote from him and changing the channel. Burt chuckles but doesn’t push it.
We sit in companionable silence for a while, watching a rerun of some hockey game. It’s mindless—exactly what I need after the chaos of the night. Burt starts rambling about his old college football days, and I half-listen, letting his voice wash over me as my mind drifts back to Becky.
It’s well into the morning, when the firehouse door creaks open, and Mrs. Hargrove steps inside. She’s an elderly woman who lives a few streets over, always doting on the crew with homemade cookies and gossip about the town. But today, she’s carrying a small crate in her hands, her face lined with concern.
“Mike, Burt,” she says, her voice soft. “I found this little one in my yard. Thought it might belong to someone.”
She sets the crate on the counter, and I peer inside to find a tiny gray kitten, its big green eyes blinking up at me. It’s trembling, huddled in the corner like it’s trying to make itself invisible.
“She was scared half to death,” Mrs. Hargrove continues. “I figured you boys might know what to do.”
The kitten lets out a tiny mewl, and something in my chest tightens. Without thinking, I reach in and scoop her up. She’s light as a feather, all bones and fluff, and she immediately curls into the crook of my arm, her tiny claws gripping my shirt.
“Well, looks like she’s claimed you,” Burt says with a laugh.
I glance down at the kitten, her little body warm against mine, and feel an unexpected wave of protectiveness. “Guess I’ve got a roommate,” I say, the corner of my mouth twitching into a smile.
***
By the time I get home, the sky is streaked with pink and gold, the promise of a new day chasing away the last traces of darkness. The house is quiet, everyone still asleep. I enter quietly, the kitten cradled in my arms, and head straight to my room.
Exhaustion pulls at me as I drop onto the bed, the events of the night catching up all at once. The kitten climbs onto my chest, her tiny paws kneading against my shirt before curling into a ball. I reach up to scratch behind her ears, her soft purr lulling me toward sleep.
As my eyes drift closed, one thought lingers in my mind: Becky. Her voice, her face, the way she looked at me when I told her everything would be okay. Something about her is pulling me in, and I’m not sure I want to fight it.
The kitten stirs as I shift under the covers, her tiny body stretching out before settling back against my chest. Her soft purring hums in the quiet room, a sound so soothing it starts to unwind the tension in my shoulders. For a moment, I just lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, letting the stillness settle over me.
Becky deserves better. And maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to wonder if I could be part of “better.”