Chapter 5 - Grant
"Want to see inside?" I offer, immediately regretting the words. Confined space. Close proximity. Bad idea.
But her face lights up with genuine enthusiasm. "Really? Is that allowed?"
"I think I can clear it with the boss," I say dryly, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism while fighting the urge to smile at her excitement.
I open the passenger door of Engine 12 and gesture for her to climb up. "Watch your step."
She grabs the handrail and pulls herself up with surprising agility. I follow, noticing how small the cab feels with both of us inside. Her scent—that citrus and vanilla combination that's been haunting me—fills the confined space.
"This is amazing," she says, running her fingers lightly over the dashboard controls. "So many buttons and screens. It's like a spaceship."
"Pretty much," I agree, grateful for the safe topic. "The technology's come a long way. These screens show building layouts, hydrant locations, and quickest routes. Makes a huge difference in response time."
She turns in the seat to face me, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Do you still get... you know, triggered? When the alarm goes off?"
The question catches me off guard with its directness. Most people skirt around my military past, afraid to ask about the PTSD that Brock undoubtedly mentioned to her at some point. But Ellie goes straight for what matters.
I consider deflecting but find myself answering honestly instead. "Sometimes. The initial alarm can... take me back for a split second. But once we're moving, responding, I'm fine."
She nods, studying my face with an understanding that's both comforting and unsettling. No pity, just genuine interest.
"Dad says it's different for him. That the adrenaline just kicks in and his military training takes over. But he doesn't have the same... reactions you do."
"Your dad was always better at compartmentalizing," I admit. "Even in Afghanistan. Mortar round would hit nearby, and while the rest of us were diving for cover, Brock would be calmly assessing the situation, figuring out where it came from, who was hit."
"That sounds like him," she says with a small smile. "He never really talks about it much. Afghanistan. But he talks about you. How you saved his life."
I shift uncomfortably. "He exaggerates. We saved each other more than once."
"He doesn't exaggerate," Ellie counters, leaning slightly closer. "Dad doesn't offer empty praise. If he says you saved his life, you saved his life."
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I forget where we are—that this is Brock's daughter, that I'm twenty years older than her, that this attraction is inappropriate in every possible way. All I can see is Ellie, looking at me like I'm someone worth admiring.
The radio on the dashboard suddenly crackles with static, and I flinch before I can stop myself—an instinctive reaction to unexpected loud noises. It's brief, barely noticeable to most people, but Ellie sees it. Of course she does.
I clear my throat and shift back slightly. "We should continue the tour."
Something like understanding flashes across her face, but she doesn't comment on my reaction. She just nods and moves toward the door. I exit first, then offer my hand to help her down. She places her smaller hand in mine, and the simple contact sends an electric current up my arm. I release her as soon as her feet touch the ground, shoving my hand in my pocket like it's been burned.
"The command center next?" she suggests, seemingly unfazed while I'm having an internal crisis over a two-second hand touch.
"Sure," I nod, leading the way across the bay.
As we walk, I notice several of the crew watching us with barely concealed interest. Max gives me a not-so-subtle thumbs up behind Ellie's back, and I shoot him a warning glare that only makes his grin widen. Great. Exactly what I need—the entire station speculating about Ellie and me.
"This is where we now coordinate during large-scale events," I explain as we enter the command center. Several screens display maps of Cedar Falls, weather patterns, and emergency response statuses.
"So, this is the new command central," she says, examining the sophisticated setup. "Though knowing Dad, he's probably out at the scene most of the time anyway."
Her insight makes me smile. "You know him well. Your dad doesn't believe a chief should only direct from behind a desk. He leads from the front, always has. Afghanistan taught him that—the men follow when their leader is beside them, not shouting from a safe distance."
"It's what I've always admired about him," she says softly. "But it also terrified me growing up. Knowing he was always running toward the danger."
There's a vulnerability in her voice that makes me want to reassure her, to tell her that her father is the most capable man I've ever known. Instead, I find myself saying, "I'm always with him, you know. When things get bad. We have a system."
Her eyes meet mine, gratitude shining in them. "I know. It's why I've always slept better knowing you're on shift with him."
The idea that I've been providing her comfort, even indirectly, for all these years feels significant somehow.
"When we're in a situation—a fire, a collapse—something happens," I find myself explaining. "It's like I lock in, become the soldier I was. The alarms, the chaos—they fade away. It's just the objective, the mission. He might be faster, but your dad and I work the same way in those moments. It's why we're effective together."
"The military bond," she says with understanding. "Dad says there's nothing like it."
"There isn't," I agree. "Fifteen years since we served together, and when things go sideways, we still move like a unit."
She smiles at that, a soft, grateful expression that makes her even more beautiful. "I think that's the most words I've ever heard you speak at once."
Her teasing tone catches me off guard, and I find myself smiling back. "I can talk when it matters."
"Noted," she says, eyes twinkling. "So, I just need to find topics that matter to you."
There's a playfulness in her voice that I should absolutely not be responding to, but I find myself relaxing despite my better judgment.
"Fire safety is always a riveting conversation starter," I deadpan.
She laughs, the sound bright and warm in the sterile command center. "I'll remember that for all my future dinner parties. 'Good evening, everyone. Before we enjoy our meal, let's discuss the proper technique for operating a fire extinguisher.'"
I chuckle, surprising myself. "PASS," I say automatically.
"I beg your pardon?" She raises an eyebrow.
"Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep," I explain. "The proper technique for operating a fire extinguisher."
"See? Riveting dinner conversation," she declares triumphantly. "I'll be the most popular hostess in Cedar Falls."
Her easy humor is disarming, making it increasingly difficult to maintain the professional distance I've been cultivating for years. This is the danger with Ellie—she slips past my defenses without even trying.
The station's alarm suddenly blares, and I tense instinctively, my heart rate spiking before I register it's just the PA system calling for the meeting.
"Meeting in the conference room in five minutes. All officers report."
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Ellie notices but kindly pretends she doesn't.
"That's my cue," I say, relieved and disappointed simultaneously, “You coming?”
"I don’t think so. I should probably get going anyway," Ellie says, though she makes no move to leave. "I told my friend Tasha I'd meet her for lunch at noon."
Tasha. The name sounds familiar. "Your roommate from college?"
Her eyebrows lift in surprise. "Yeah. She's visiting Cedar Falls for the first time. How did you know that?"
I shrug, trying to play it casual. "Your dad mentioned her a few times."
In reality, I'd memorized every detail Brock ever shared about Ellie's life at college—her roommate Tasha, her psychology professors she admired, her favorite coffee shop near campus where she studied. Each crumb of information about her life away from Cedar Falls felt precious somehow.
"Right," she says, a curious expression crossing her face. "Well, I should let you get to your meeting."
We walk toward the main entrance in silence. The urge to ask when I'll see her again sits on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back. Thursday. We already arranged Thursday. Asking again would reveal too much.
At the door, she turns to face me. "Thanks for the tour. And for letting me help with the safety demonstrations."
"Thank you for volunteering," I reply formally, aware of eyes on us from across the station. "Your assistance will be valuable."
She rolls her eyes at my professional tone. "And here I thought we were making progress beyond monosyllabic responses."
Before I can reply, she steps closer—too close—and lowers her voice. "For the record, I'm really looking forward to Thursday."
The sincerity in her voice knocks me off balance. I should step back. I should maintain appropriate distance. I should do anything except stand here, caught in her gaze like a deer in headlights.
"Me too," I admit quietly, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.
Her smile blooms, bright and genuine, "See you then, Grant."
She walks out the door with a small wave, leaving me standing there like an idiot, watching her go. Through the window, I see her climb into her car, catch me still watching, and give another little wave before driving away.
"Well, well, well."
I turn to find Max leaning against the wall, arms crossed, shit-eating grin firmly in place.
"Don't start," I warn, heading toward the conference room.
"I didn't say anything," he says innocently, falling into step beside me. "Just observing you giving a very thorough private tour to the Chief's daughter."
"It wasn't private," I counter. "We were in the middle of the station the entire time."
"Uh-huh," Max nods sagely. "And that's why you're blushing right now."
"I'm not—" I start to protest, but the heat in my face betrays me. "The meeting's starting. We should go."
"Whatever you say, boss," Max chuckles. "But for the record? I've never seen you smile that much in all the years I've known you."
I ignore him and stride into the conference room, where Brock is already setting up for the meeting. He looks up as I enter, his expression unreadable.
"Ellie left?" he asks casually.
"Yes, sir," I reply, taking my usual seat. "She mentioned meeting a friend for lunch."
Brock nods. "Tasha. Good kid. Kept Ellie grounded through college." He pauses, studying me. "She enjoyed the tour?"
"Seemed to," I say neutrally, shuffling papers I don't need to look busy.
"Good," is all he says, but something in his tone makes me glance up. He's watching me with that same knowing expression he had at dinner Friday night.
Does he suspect? Has he noticed something in the way I look at Ellie? The thought makes me cold with dread. Brock's friendship means everything to me—I can't lose that. Not even for Ellie.
The room fills with the rest of the command staff, and the meeting begins. I force myself to focus on budgets, training schedules, and equipment maintenance, making appropriate comments when necessary. But in the back of my mind, Thursday looms like both a promise and a threat.
Thursday, when I'll see Ellie again. When we'll be alone together, planning demonstrations that suddenly seem like the flimsiest excuse to spend time in her company.
The meeting ends after an hour, and I gather my notes, intent on retreating to my office to recalibrate my professional boundaries before Thursday.
"Grant," Brock calls as the room empties. "Got a minute?"
My heart rate spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. "Of course, Chief."
When the last person leaves, closing the door behind them, Brock leans back in his chair, staring at me with an intensity that makes me want to confess every inappropriate thought I've ever had about his daughter.
"Everything okay?" I ask when the silence stretches uncomfortably.
"You tell me," he replies cryptically. "You seem... distracted lately."
I shrug, aiming for casual. "Just busy with the new engine, safety demonstrations, the usual."
He nods slowly. "Had another nightmare last night, didn't you?"
The question catches me off guard. Brock has always had an uncanny ability to read me, a skill honed through years of shared combat situations.
"It's nothing," I deflect. "Same old stuff."
"Kandahar?" he asks, knowing already.
I nod once, shortly. We don't talk about this often—the lingering effects of our deployments. But Brock always knows when the memories are pressing closer to the surface.
"You know, the counseling center Ellie's interviewing at—they have a veteran's program," he says casually. "Specialized PTSD treatment. Might be worth looking into. Ollis’s girlfriend is behind it."
"I'm fine," I say.
"Sure you are," he replies, unconvinced. "That's why you still flinch at loud noises and wake up in cold sweats so many years later."
I say nothing, uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation.
Brock sighs, leaning forward. "Ellie's been reading up on PTSD treatment approaches. Part of her degree program. She mentioned some new techniques that have shown promising results for veterans."
The mention of Ellie sends my thoughts spiraling in a dangerous direction. "I'll look into it," I say.
"She asked about you, you know," Brock continues. "After dinner Friday. Wanted to know if you were still having nightmares."
My head snaps up in surprise. "She did?"
"Mhm. She's grown up, Grant," Brock says suddenly, changing tack so abruptly it gives me conversational whiplash. "Not the same kid who left four years ago. She's a woman now, with her own ideas, her own life."
I say nothing, unsure where this is going, but certain I don't like the direction.
"You know, Sarah and I had a ten-year age gap," he continues conversationally, throwing me completely off balance. "Met when she was twenty-four and I was thirty-four. Plenty of people had opinions about that."
Is he saying what I think he's saying? Impossible.
"Sir?" It's all I can manage.
Brock sighs, leaning forward. "I'm not blind, Grant. Or stupid. I've known you for fifteen years. We've been through hell together."
"I don't know what you're—" I start, but he holds up a hand, stopping me.
"I'm not accusing you of anything," he says firmly. "I know you'd never cross any lines. You're too honorable for that. Too loyal."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by shame. He trusts me, and here I am, fighting feelings for his daughter.
"She's back for good," Brock continues. "Going to be around the station, working with you on these demonstrations. I just want to make sure we're all clear on boundaries."
"Absolutely clear, sir," I say stiffly, humiliation burning in my gut. "There's nothing to worry about."
"Good. Because Ellie's well-being is my priority. Always has been, always will be. I wouldn't want her getting hurt. By anyone."
The implied threat isn't subtle, but it's unnecessary. I'd cut off my own arm before hurting Ellie.
"Understood," I say firmly. "You have my word."
"I know I do," Brock says, his expression softening slightly. "That's never been in question."
He stands, indicating our conversation is over, but then pauses. "One more thing, Grant. If you ever did want to talk to someone... about the nightmares, the triggers... Ellie might understand better than you think. Sarah had her own battles after her cancer diagnosis. Ellie saw it all."
The thought of Ellie understanding my darkness is both comforting and terrifying.
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, not committing to anything.
"Meeting with the City Council tomorrow at 9," Brock says, returning to professional matters. "Bring the budget reports."
"Yes, sir," I reply, grateful for the shift.
As I leave the conference room, my mind is a battleground. Brock clearly suspects my feelings for Ellie, yet he didn't explicitly forbid anything. But the warning was clear enough—don't hurt her. Don't cross lines.
Back in my office, I close the door and drop into my chair, rubbing a hand over my face. Thursday seems even more complicated now. I should cancel. Make up an excuse. Assign someone else to the safety demonstrations.
But even as I think it, I know I won't. Because as much as I respect Brock, as much as I value his friendship and trust, the thought of not seeing Ellie on Thursday creates an ache in my chest I can't ignore.
My phone buzzes with a text message. Ellie.
*Thanks again for the tour, future Chief! Fair warning: I'm working on a fire safety song set to "Baby Shark" for the kids. Prepare your eardrums for Thursday. ? ? *
I smile despite the warning bells, despite Brock's words still ringing in my ears.
*Looking forward to it,* I type back. *I think.*
Her response is immediate: *Too late to back out now, Walker. See you Thursday!*
I set my phone down, staring at the screen long after it goes dark. Thursday. Just three days away.
Three days to figure out how to be near Ellie without wanting what I shouldn't want. Three days to find my professional footing again. Three days to remember all the reasons why anything beyond friendship is impossible.
But as I turn back to my work, trying to focus on incident reports and staffing schedules, one thought keeps circling back:
She notices when I flinch. She asked about my nightmares. She understands.
And somehow, that's the most dangerous fire of all.