Chapter 22
STELLAN
I don’t sleep much after asking Hartley to be my boyfriend.
Not because anything went wrong. Because everything went right and my brain doesn’t know what to do now that we’re together-together.
Hartley’s voice stays with me the most.
I was mad, but I’m not anymore.
I hear the hurt underneath it now that I’m alone with it. He hadn’t yelled or accused. He’d just sounded scared and careful at the same time, like he was trying not to ask for something he didn’t think he was allowed to want.
Someone worrying whether I come home or not is new territory.
I make coffee, drink half of it standing at the counter, then leave before I can overthink anything else.
The firehouse parking lot looks the same as always, gray morning light bouncing off metal doors, rigs lined up like they never moved. Inside, noise hits immediately. My brothers arguing about breakfast burritos while someone else laughs too loud at something that probably isn’t funny.
Jake spots me first. “Look who decided to keep the job.”
“Missed you too,” I say.
He claps my shoulder. “You look different.”
“Insomnia’s a bitch.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I ignore him, because there’s no way he thinks I look different from having a man. It’s a boyfriend, not a damn pregnancy glow.
My gear feels heavier when I lift it from the locker. Not physically. I run a hand over the helmet, checking the straps out of habit.
Captain Cole watches from across the bay, arms folded.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll get you back on your old schedule, if that works for you.”
I nod. “That’ll work.”
The morning’s quiet so we roll hoses, play a game of poker and start talking about next week’s meal plan. The first tone drops just after nine.
Kitchen fire. Second floor apartment.
I’m already on my feet before the dispatcher finishes the address, crossing the bay while Phoenix grabs his helmet and Jake swings toward the medic unit, everyone falling into position without needing direction because we’ve done this together too many times to hesitate now.
Gear waits exactly where I left it; turnout pants stepped into in one practiced motion, suspenders pulled up, coat shrugged on while I walk, gloves shoved into pockets, helmet clipped and ready.
For a split second I register how natural it feels again.
I swing up into the truck and pull the door shut just as the engine roars alive beneath us. The bay doors crawl upward and daylight floods in, flashing across chrome and glass then we’re moving, siren wailing into the morning air.
Traffic parts slowly, reluctantly; Chicago drivers pretending they don’t see us until the last second.
The siren vibrates through my ribs, a sound I know well enough that my breathing matches it.
Buildings slide past in streaks of brick and steel, pedestrians turning their heads as we pass, radios crackling updates.
I check my straps again even though I know they’re secure, glove tightening around the rail as we take a corner too fast for comfort. Across from me Dark grins like he always does on the way to a call, adrenaline lighting him up.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, and I mean it.
The address comes into view three blocks out, thin gray smoke pushing from a second floor window. We pull up hard at the curb. The engine company is already arriving behind us. Doors fly open, and the world shifts into noise and purpose all at once.
Boots hit pavement as commands from each rig get called out. Someone shuts off the gas at the exterior line while a neighbor waves frantically from the sidewalk. I grab my mask, pull it down, and follow Dark toward the building while the hose lines come alive behind us.
Inside smells like burned oil and overheated plastic, smoke hanging low along the ceiling. Visibility drops fast, but we're not blind. My body falls into pattern; scanning left, right, checking door frames, calling out as we move. Somewhere deeper inside a smoke detector screams nonstop.
Kitchen fire, contained mostly to the stove. Flames lick up one cabinet, angry but small.
“Water,” Dark calls.
The line comes through seconds later, steam erupting when it hits heat. I move automatically, clearing space, checking adjoining rooms, opening windows to vent smoke while the crew sets airflow. Every movement feels precise, efficient, like I never left.
An older woman coughs in the hallway, wrapped in a blanket. I guide her carefully toward fresh air, one hand steady at her elbow while she mutters apologies for burning breakfast.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. “That’s all that matters.”
Outside again, cold air hits my lungs hard enough to sting. Smoke drifts upward into the pale sky while neighbors gather to be the looky-lous. My helmet comes off and sweat cools instantly along my hairline.
Phoenix bumps my shoulder. “Second one back and you didn’t break anything.”
“Give it time,” I say, but I’m smiling.
I look up at the window we just cleared, smoke thinning now, problem solved before it could become something worse. My pulse slows gradually, adrenaline bleeding off in waves.
And without warning, another thought slips in.
Hartley would hate this part. The uncertainty before we knew it was small. It’s the risk nobody can completely erase.
I picture him at home, pacing the apartment, probably checking his phone every five minutes even though he knows I can’t answer. For the first time, finishing a call doesn’t just feel like doing my job. It feels like making it back to someone.
Back at the station, the guys settle into post-call chaos. Coffees get refilled, reports half started, and our gear gets put back in place, waiting for the next call.
Jake drops into the chair beside me.
“So,” he says casually, “you smiling at your phone now?”
I glance down without meaning to.
Hartley’s contact sits at the top of my messages.
“The guy I’m seeing…we made it official,” I admit.
Jake whistles low. “That serious already?”
I shrug, but it isn’t denial. “Yeah.”
Phoenix overhears immediately. “Bro brought feelings back from medical leave.”
“Shut up.”
“Does he know you’re insufferable?” Phoenix asks.
“He does,” I say. “Still said yes.”
That earns a round of approval loud enough to echo through the bay.
I shake my head, but I’m smiling anyway.
My shift ends late in the afternoon. I sit on the back step of Ladder 99 for a minute longer than necessary, helmet resting beside me. I don’t feel hollow like I used to when the day ended.
I know where I’m going next.
I pull out my phone.
Me: Busy tonight?
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Hartley: Nope. Just a low key night in. Why?
I hesitate, then type what I actually want.
Me: Can I come over?
Three dots again. Longer this time.
Hartley: Yeah of course.
I grab my keys and head for my truck, already picturing Alaska’s toys scattered across the floor, Hartley pretending he isn’t waiting near the door, the way the apartment feels warmer than my own place ever does.
I start the truck and pull into traffic.