Chapter 17
STELLAN
The firehouse hasn’t changed.
Same scuffed floors, same battered kitchen table, same half-broken chair nobody throws out because it’s somehow survived three captains and two remodels. The place holds history in every corner whether anyone admits it or not.
I step through the bay doors and stop. Coming back without gear on still sits wrong in my chest, like I showed up for something important and forgot the part of me that belongs here.
Ladder 99 rests in its usual spot, chrome catching the overhead lights in dull flashes.
I put my hand flat against the side panel.
Yeah. I missed this.
“You gonna kiss it or just stand there looking emotional?”
Phoenix’s voice carries across the bay, amused and loud enough to echo. I glance over my shoulder and find him leaning against the engine, coffee in one hand, grin already loaded.
“Depends,” I say, pushing off the truck. “You gonna cry if I do?”
“Only if you make it weird.”
“Everything’s weird with you.”
He pushes off the engine and walks over, boots thudding against the concrete. He looks me over in that quick, assessing way firefighters get used to doing.
“You look less busted,” he says.
“High praise.”
“How’s the shoulder?”
I roll it once, slowly, testing. The joint pulls tight but not sharp, more like a reminder than a warning.
“Better,” I say. “Still not one hundred.”
“PT still kicking your ass?”
“Every other day.”
He nods like that’s the only acceptable answer.
Behind him Sterling is at the long table, massive arms folded, watching the exchange without saying anything. August is digging through the fridge like he expects food to magically appear if he looks hard enough.
Nothing’s changed.
I didn’t realize how much I missed the noise until it’s around me again.
Grayson Cole steps out of his office a second later, presence filling the space without him raising his voice.
“Daniels”
I straighten automatically, shoulders squaring on instinct. “Captain.”
His eyes sweep over me, not unkind, just thorough. “You here for your update?”
“Yes, sir.”
He gestures toward the office. “Come on.”
I sit across from his desk, hands resting on my knees because anything else feels wrong.
“How’s physical therapy?” he asks.
“Progressing.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I huff a quiet breath. “They’re saying two to three weeks before I’m cleared for full duty if everything keeps improving.”
His jaw shifts, processing.
“That what you want?” There’s no judgment in the question, just fact.
“Yes.”
No hesitation, because even with everything that’s changed lately, that truth is still solid in my chest.
“Good.” He leans back slightly, chair creaking. “You’ve always been steady under pressure, Daniels. I’m not worried about you on a call.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“Thank you, sir.”
He watches me a second longer. “You got anything at home that’s going to make you hesitate?”
The question is quiet but direct.
Hartley’s face flashes through my mind without permission. The way he watches the door when sirens pass. The way his shoulders tense when anything about firefighting comes up.
“I’ve got something worth coming home to,” I say carefully.
Grayson’s mouth shifts like he almost smiles.
“That’s not a liability,” he says. “That’s a reason to stay alive.”
“Yes, sir.”
Back out in the bay, the guys are mid-argument about something stupid involving a broken coffee maker and who’s responsible.
I lean against the counter and let the noise wash over me.
Sterling points at August. “You used the last of the grounds and didn’t replace it.”
August lifts his hands. “I thought there was more.”
“You thought wrong.”
Dark finally speaks, voice low and final. “Just make another pot.”
Everyone shuts up.
Jake Lawson walks in from the side hall, a paramedic bag slung over his shoulder. When he spots me, his face breaks into a grin.
“Well, look who’s back among the living.”
“Still breathing,” I say.
He claps my good shoulder, careful without making it obvious.
“Still playing teacher.”
“Tutoring,” I correct.
“Same thing.”
We drift toward the table, grabbing fresh coffee that actually smells halfway decent this time.
“How’s that going?” he asks.
I blow on the surface, watching the steam curl.
“It’s good,” I say slowly.
I stare into my cup for a second, seeing a small kitchen table instead of the bay. Crayons lined up in perfect rows. Serious little eyes watching everything.
“You helping her?” he asks.
“I think so.”
“You usually do.”
Before I can answer the tones drop, and everybody in the room moves at once. My own body reacts before my brain catches up. Adrenaline spikes, pulse kicking hard, muscles tightening like I’m already halfway to the truck.
For half a second I step forward, then my shoulder twinges.
Reality snaps back in, and I stop.
The crew pours out of the bay, movements fast and controlled. Doors slam, the engine roars to life and just like that, they’re gone.
The bay feels bigger when the trucks are gone, like something vital just stepped out of the room.
I stand there, chest still tight with leftover adrenaline, fingers flexing like they’re searching for something to grab.
God, I miss it.
Not the danger or the heat, but the purpose and knowing exactly where I fit.
Jake lingers beside me, watching.
“You’ll be back,” he says.
“I know.”
The drive home is quiet, the city sliding past in gray and steel.
By the time I pull into my building’s lot the sun is already dropping, the sky streaked with orange and purple over the skyline. Chicago at dusk always looks as pretty as a painting.
Inside, my apartment greets me with stillness. I hang my keys on the hook by the door and roll my shoulder again, slower this time.
It pulls tight, not terrible, just there.
I head to the bathroom, twist the shower handle, and let hot water fill the small space with steam.
When I step under it heat sinks into muscle and bone, loosening the knot that’s been riding high between my shoulder and neck all day. I brace my palm against the tile and close my eyes. For a second, the sound of water turns into something else.
Rain against turnout gear, the hiss of steam on hot metal, a child crying somewhere behind a wall.
I open my eyes, and I’m still in my bathroom. I exhale slowly and let the tension bleed out with the heat.
Later, dressed in sweats and a T-shirt, I sit on the couch with my phone resting face up beside me.
My mind drifts where it’s been drifting all day.
Hartley standing in his kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
The way he watches Alaska before he speaks, like her reaction matters more than his own.
The way his voice went rough when he said he was scared.
I pick up the phone, thumb hovering over his name. I don’t need a reason. Still, I keep it simple.
Me: How’s she doing today?
The message sends before I can overthink it.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Hartley: She asked about you.