Chapter 12
Cole
The kitchen fire at Bernie’s Diner is out before we even get the hoses connected.
Small grease fire. The employee panicked and threw water on it instead of using the extinguisher mounted three feet away. Classic mistake. We ventilate the smoke, check for extension into the walls, and give the owner a lecture about kitchen safety protocols.
Routine call. In and out in forty minutes.
But my head’s not in it.
I’m going through the motions—checking hot spots, documenting the scene, making sure nothing’s smoldering that could reignite later. Exactly how I’ve been doing this job for ten years.
Except I keep thinking about Rachel.
About the rooftop. About the way she looked at me in the dark with her walls completely down. About how she felt in my arms, trusting me with something I’m not sure I deserve.
“Lieutenant?” Garcia’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “We’re clear to pack up.”
“Right. Yeah. Good work.” I strip off my gloves. “Let’s head back.”
The ride to Station 47 is quiet. The crew’s tired. It’s been a long shift—three calls since six a.m., and we’ve still got two hours left before the next team takes over.
Back at the station, I log the incident report and make sure everything is in its place. Everything accounted for. Order and routine. The things that keep me steady when everything else feels like it’s tilting sideways.
My phone buzzes—text from Jake.
You still have my torque wrench? Need it this weekend for the truck.
I stare at the message. The wrench is in my toolbox at home. Has been for three weeks.
I type back: Yeah, I’ll drop it off after my shift.
His response is immediate: Thanks. I’ll be at work until 6, but Rachel’s home.
Rachel’s home.
I pocket my phone and finish my shift on autopilot.
I’m driving past Main Street when I see the toy store.
Miller’s Toys. Been there since I was a kid. Same faded awning, same window displays that probably haven’t changed in twenty years.
I pull into the parking lot.
The store smells like plastic and nostalgia. An older woman at the counter looks up when I walk in.
“Help you find something?”
“Just browsing.”
I wander down the aisles, not sure what I’m looking for. Action figures. Board games. Stuffed animals that look like they’ve been sitting on those shelves since the nineties.
Then I see it.
Fire truck. Red and yellow, lights that actually work, a ladder that extends. The kind of toy I would’ve lost my mind over when I was five.
The kind of toy Tommy would love.
I pick it up. Turn it over. Check the price tag.
This is a bad idea. Buying gifts for a kid who’s not mine. Showing up at Rachel’s house with presents like I’m trying to win points. Crossing lines, I specifically told myself I wouldn’t cross.
I take it to the counter anyway.
The woman rings it up, chatting about how her grandson has the same truck and loves it. I nod in the right places, pay cash, and walk out with a bag I have no business carrying.
Rachel answers the door in workout clothes. Leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that keeps sliding off one shoulder. Her hair’s up in a ponytail, and there’s a smudge of what looks like marker on her cheek.
“Cole.” She blinks. “Hi. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Jake asked me to drop off his wrench.” I hold it up like evidence. “He said he needs it this weekend.”
“Right. Yeah. Come in.” She steps back, and I follow her inside.
The living room looks like a tornado hit it. Toys scattered everywhere, blankets draped over chairs creating some fort structure, crayons and paper covering the coffee table.
“Sorry about the mess.” Rachel kicks a stuffed dinosaur out of the way. “We’re having an art day. Well, Tommy’s having an art day. I’m mostly just trying to keep him from drawing on the furniture.”
“Where is he?”
“Kitchen. Snack break.” She calls out, “Tommy! Cole’s here!”
Tommy appears in the doorway with a juice box and a cookie, his face lighting up when he sees me.
“Cole! Did you come to see my fort?”
“I came to return your uncle’s wrench. But yeah, I’d love to see the fort.”
Tommy launches into an elaborate explanation of the fort’s architecture. Apparently, it has multiple rooms and a secret entrance that only he knows about. I nod thoughtfully, like we’re discussing actual construction plans.
“That’s really impressive engineering,” I tell him.
“I know!” He beams. “Mama says I’m gonna be an architect when I grow up.”
“Or a firefighter,” Rachel adds from the doorway. “He changes his career plans every other day.”
“Both are good options.” I set the wrench down on the side table. “Actually, Tommy, I saw something today and thought of you.”
His eyes go wide. “What?”
I pull out the toy fire truck. “This.”
Tommy’s jaw drops. He looks at the truck, then at me, then back at the truck like he’s trying to decide if it’s real.
“For me?”
“If you want it.”
He grabs it with both hands, immediately making siren noises and running it across the coffee table. “This is the coolest thing ever! Look, Mama, it has real lights!”
Rachel’s watching me with this expression I can’t quite read. “Cole, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. I wanted to.”
“That’s really sweet.” Her voice is soft. “Say thank you, Tommy.”
“Thank you, Cole!” Tommy crashes the fire truck into his dinosaur fort. “Now Rex can get rescued from the fire.”
He disappears into the fort with his new truck, leaving us standing in the living room.
“Coffee?” Rachel asks. “I just made a fresh pot.”
“Sure.”
I follow her into the kitchen. It’s cleaner than the living room but still shows signs of Tommy’s art day—finger paintings drying on the counter, a half-finished coloring book on the table.
Rachel pours two mugs and hands me one. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black’s fine.”
We sit at the kitchen table. She curls her legs under her, both hands wrapped around her mug.
“How was your shift?” she asks.
“Quiet. Minor kitchen fire. Nothing serious.”
“That’s good.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I always wonder what your days are like. If every call is life or death, or if most of them are … routine.”
“Most are routine. Small fires, false alarms, and medical assists. The big ones are rare.” I lean back in my chair. “Which is good. Big ones mean someone’s in danger.”
“Like the café.”
“Like the café.”
She’s quiet for a moment, staring into her coffee. “I still have nightmares about it sometimes. Not every night. But enough that I wake up smelling smoke that isn’t there.”
“That’s normal. Trauma does that.”
“You ever have nightmares? From your job?”
“Sometimes.” I don’t elaborate. Don’t tell her about the nightmares where I’m too late, where I arrive at the fire and everyone’s already gone. “It comes with the territory.”
“How do you deal with it?”
“Work. Routine. Staying busy.” I take a drink of coffee. “Probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it works.”
“Sounds familiar.” She sets her mug down. “I’ve been throwing myself into job applications. Must’ve sent out thirty in the past week.”
“Any responses?”
“Three rejections. Two interviews that went nowhere. One place that said they’d call back but never did.” She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s frustrating. I’ve got experience. I’ve got references. But apparently being internet famous for surviving fires isn’t a selling point.”
“Their loss.”
“That’s what Jake keeps saying.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m trying to stay positive. Something will come through eventually.”
“It will.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You’re good at what you do. Smart. Organized. Any place would be lucky to have you.”
“You barely know what I do.”
“I know enough. I know you managed that café for three months, and everyone who worked there loved you. I know you handle stress better than most people I’ve served with.
I know you’re raising a good kid while dealing with your ex being an ass.
” I meet her eyes. “That’s more than enough to know you’re going to land on your feet. ”
She’s looking at me like I just said something important. Like those words mean more than I intended.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For saying that. For believing it.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
“I know.” Her hand moves across the table, fingers brushing mine. “That’s one of the things I like about you.”
The touch is brief. Casual. But it sends electricity straight through me.
I turn my hand over, letting her fingers rest against my palm.
“Rachel—”
“I know.” She doesn’t move her hand. “I know this is complicated. I know we probably shouldn’t. I know Jake would lose his mind if he knew.”
“Then why are we doing this?”
“Because it feels right.” She looks at our hands. “Because when you’re around, I feel less alone. Less like I’m barely holding it together.” Her eyes meet mine. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you either.”
The confession hangs between us. Too honest. Too raw.
Tommy’s voice drifts from the living room. “Mama! The fire truck’s battery died!”
Rachel pulls her hand back and stands up. “That’s my cue. Hold on, baby, I’ll get you new batteries!”
She disappears toward the hallway, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my half-finished coffee and the weight of what I just admitted.