12. If the shoe fits #2
“I think,” I manage, my voice strangled around a laugh, “because some adults are very immature.”
“That’s accurate,” Frankie says weakly.
Mason, who has apparently chosen death, lifts the tongs and clacks them twice. “In fairness though, Prince does get very intense around anything hot.”
“Fletch,” Evan warns.
“Meat.”
“Fletcher.”
“Private tours.”
“Mason.”
“His nanny.”
The table loses it.
Even Remi turns her face into Zela’s soft curls, her shoulders trembling as she presses a kiss to the baby’s head.
Max, thrilled by the attention and understanding absolutely none of it, starts clicking his fingers like tongs and chanting, “hot meat, hot meat, hot meat,” until Luke reaches over and calmly hands him a piece of cornbread.
“Eat that, buddy,” Luke says. “For the love of God.”
Elle studies Evan. “Daddy, are you giving Penny a private tour because you’re polite?”
“Yes,” Evan says, at the same time Mason says, “No.”
Evan turns slowly, and Mason takes one careful step back. “I meant no, as in yes.”
“That's not how words work,” Colt tells him.
“Nothing works anymore. The children have the room.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, loose from somewhere low in my ribs, and the sound feels too bright to belong to me. Evan glances over at me, and his expression shifts just enough to cause a reckless feeling to prickle my skin.
Mason notices immediately, because apparently, vigilance is his greatest burden.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Are you two done eye fu—err, communicating, or should we give you a minute to… finish?”
“Subtle as a brick,” Luke mutters.
“What does eye communicating mean?” Elle asks.
“It means your father is bad at hiding things,” Remi says calmly.
Evan ignores them completely as he walks over and offers me his hand.
“C’mon,” he says. “I’ll show you around before they get worse.”
“Little late for that,” Remi says dryly.
I take Evan’s hand to stand, then let go to brush my hands on my jeans, distracting myself from the rough warmth of his palms.
“Back in a minute,” I say, turning to glance back at the table and catching Remi’s eyes.
She smiles at me in a way that suggests she knows exactly what this is and is enjoying it far too much.
The noise drops a notch as we step further into the apparatus bay. The engine sits gleaming, red paint catching the late afternoon light.
“This is ours,” Evan says, resting his hand against the side panel. “Engine One.”
His voice changes when he talks about this place. It settles and slows, like he’s talking about an old friend or something he loves.
“You definitely have a tour voice,” I say.
He glances at me. “I do not.”
“You do. I feel both educated and mildly supervised.”
From the table, Mason stage-whispers loudly. “He definitely has tour-guide voice.”
“It’s worse when he starts gesturing,” adds Luke.
Evan turns his head to shout over the truck. “Eat your food.”
He opens one of the compartments to show me what’s inside, full of coiled hoses and tools clipped into place with almost obsessive precision.
“This is the hydraulic kit,” he says, gesturing to each item. “Stabilization blocks. Glass management.”
“Glass management…”
“Mhmm.”
“You’re showing me these things like they’re on a spa menu.”
A corner of his mouth twitches, and he guides me past the lockers. His name is stenciled above one, the paint slightly worn. The door’s cracked open, boots lined neatly beneath it, his jacket hanging heavy and ready.
“So you sleep here?” I ask as he leads me down the short corridor.
“When we’re on night shift, yeah.”
“And if you’re mid-meal and the alarm goes?”
“When the tones drop, we go.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“And if someone’s in the shower?”
He looks at me. “We go.”
“Wow.”
He huffs through his nose. “You enjoying this?”
“I think I just like seeing you in your element.”
The words leave me before I can think about them, and he slows his steps.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re different here,” I say with a shrug. “More relaxed.”
Which I know must sound odd—I assume a fire station isn’t exactly the most calm environment—but his eyes hold mine for a beat anyway. He opens his mouth to reply, but Mason’s voice drifts faintly from the bay.
“He’s definitely gonna show her his bed.”
Evan steps a little closer to me, close enough that his arm brushes mine.
“Ignore him,” he murmurs.
I nod as we reach a row of doors, and he swings one open. There’s a double bed with folded blankets on the end, and a radio charger humming faintly on the wall.
“You have your own rooms?”
“Yeah, not all stations do—we lucked out because this is a pretty new build.”
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing the radio.
“Alarm tones,” he says. “Different calls have different sounds.”
“And you just… know which is which?”
“You know by the first tone if you’re running,” he says. “Cadence tells you before dispatch finishes.”
“That’s unsettling.”
He smiles, his eyes trailing my face. “You get used to it.”
Silence settles for a second, and I’m suddenly more aware of his eyes on me. The hallway feels narrower than when we walked in, and the noise from the bay is muted by walls and distance.
I glance back at the open bunk room, then at him.
“So you like it?” I ask.
“What?”
“This. Living half your life ready to run.”
His expression shifts slightly. “It’s not about liking it, really. Or running. It’s about knowing what you’re for.”
“What you’re for,” I repeat.
He nods. “When the tones drop, there’s no question. You just move.”
I study him for a second longer.
“That’s what I meant,” I say quietly. “You’re different here because you don’t question yourself.”
The muscle in his jaw tightens a fraction. “You think I question myself everywhere else?”
I shrug lightly, but my pulse picks up. “Maybe.”
He steps closer, and I back into the wall. I’m not trapped, but he’s close enough I can feel his warmth.
“And you?” he asks. “You don’t?”
“That’s not a tour question,” I say, attempting a deflection.
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
I swallow, and his eyes track the movement before they snap back to mine.
“You said I look like I belong,” he continues. “You don’t think you belong anywhere?”
I look past him for a second, toward the dim glow at the end of the corridor.
“If the shoe fits,” I admit before I can stop myself. “Less to lose that way.”
I feel exposed the second the words leave my mouth, but his eyes don’t soften.
“That’s bullshit.”
I frown. “What?”
“You say shit like you don’t belong here, but try telling that to my kid who looks for you before she looks for me every morning.”
My chest tightens, and I shake my head. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No?”
He takes one more half-step forward, and we’re close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw.
“Elle sleeps better,” he says. “She laughs louder, and I wake up to music.” His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “That doesn’t happen when someone doesn’t belong.”
“That’s different,” I whisper.
“Is it?”
The hallway hums around us, and I can hear the charger on the wall and the faint clatter of cutlery from the bay. I become very aware of the way my hand is resting against the doorframe, and my fingers flex against it.
His eyes dart down to my hand, and then his fingers reach out, brushing lightly against mine.
“Pen,” he whispers.
That nickname lands softly in this narrow space between us, and I open my mouth to make a joke, but no words come out. Evan exhales through his nose, but he doesn’t move immediately.
I’m acutely aware of how close we are. The warmth of his bod and the rough graze of his fingers. The weight of his eyes on my mouth.
How dangerously easy it would be to lean forward and brush my lips against his.
He looks like he’s thinking the same thing, but somewhere down the corridor a locker door slams, and someone starts talking. The sounds and rhythm of more of the crew mid-shift break over the moment before it can become anything else.
Evan steps back first.
“C’mon,” he says. “Before they think something’s going on here.”
Something is definitely going on here.
All I can do is nod, because my mouth needs a second to remember how to form words.
As we walk back toward the bay, the tension between us is turbo-charged, and when we step into the noise of the bay again, I swear every sound lands sharper than before.
Mason’s mid-argument about seasoning ratios while Frankie heckles him, and Colt’s laughing at something Luke said under his breath.
Max is sprinting in unpredictable loops with a bread roll clutched in his fist while Elle chases after him.
Both of them are giggling so hard the sound seems to bounce off the walls.
It’s the happiest thing I’ve heard in a long time.
Evan slows half a step beside me as we approach the table, recalibrating from whatever the hell just passed between us in the hallway. Remi looks up first.
“Well?” she asks, eyes dancing. “Did he show you the glamorous side of firefighting or just the equipment?”
“He has a tour voice,” I say, sliding back into my chair and ignoring the innuendo. “You were right.”
“I do not,” Evan mutters, sitting down beside me.
Mason swings around with a grin. “Did he do the hand gestures too?”
“He did the hand gestures,” I confirm.
Luke nods. “Told ya.”
Evan glares at them and reaches for his drink, his knee brushing mine under the table as he does so, but he doesn’t move it away.
And damn it, I feel it everywhere.
The Chief suddenly appears from the office corridor, with sunglasses perched on his head.
“Well,” he says, scanning the table, eyes landing on me. “We feeding civilians now?”
“She’s not a civilian, Chief,” Mason says around a mouthful of food. “She’s a survivor of the Prince tour.”
The Chief’s gaze settles back on me.
“You settling in okay?” he asks. He’s assessing, but it’s not unkind.
“Yes, Chief,” I answer with a smile.
His mouth hitches with amusement. “It’s Rhodes off shift.”
“Rhodes,” I correct, softer.
He nods once, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they dart from me, to Evan, and back. “Good.”