Chapter 19 Garrett
Garrett
Three weeks and Sloane had finally moved in the last box.
Books she couldn't decide where to shelve. This morning I'd found her cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by stacks of paperbacks, muttering about alphabetization versus genre organization like it was a life-or-death decision.
Some things hadn't changed. In our old apartment, she'd done the exact same thing. Spent an entire weekend reorganizing, only to decide she hated the system and start over.
I'd watched her do it three times before I learned to just stay out of the way.
The apartment looked different now. Not in ways a stranger would notice.
But I noticed.
Her books crowded my shelves. Journalism memoirs mixed with true crime, dog-eared paperbacks stacked next to my firefighting manuals.
Her corkboard dominated the spare room, notes and photos and the organized chaos of whatever story she was chasing.
Post-its in her handwriting appeared in random places. On the fridge. On the bathroom mirror. On my nightstand: Your snoring woke me up at 3am. We need to talk.
Her coffee mug beside mine in the cabinet, the one with the chipped handle she refused to throw away.
Her shampoo taking over an entire shelf in the shower.
Her press credentials on the hook where my spare jacket used to be.
My order. Her chaos. It had driven me crazy the first time.
Now I couldn't imagine the apartment without it.
My order. Her chaos. It had driven me crazy the first time we'd lived together. Now I couldn't imagine the apartment without it.
Years ago, we'd built a home. Then we'd lost it. Lost each other.
Coming home to silence. Eating dinner standing at the counter. Filling the quiet with the TV just to have something other than my own thoughts.
I'd told myself I liked it that way.
I'd been lying to myself.
Living with Sloane again was like remembering how to breathe.
The laptop open on the coffee table. The shoes kicked off by the door. The notes scattered across every horizontal surface. The way she talked to herself when she was working through a problem, muttering fragments I couldn't quite follow.
The sandwiches I left on her desk when she forgot to eat. Gone without a word.
She still sang in the shower. Badly. Off-key renditions of songs I didn't recognize, belted out with complete confidence.
Years ago, I used to tease her about it.
Now I stood outside the bathroom door and grinned like an idiot, grateful I got to hear it again.
She still stole my shirts. Every single FDNY t-shirt had migrated to her side of the closet. She wore them around the apartment like they belonged to her.
Which they did. They always had.
She still read in bed with a penlight because she didn't want to wake me, and she still fell asleep with the light on. I still woke up at 2am to turn it off, finding her with a book splayed across her chest and her mouth slightly open. Just like before.
All the small, ordinary moments that added up to a life.
I made coffee. Started breakfast. Listened to her footsteps in the bedroom, the creak of the floorboards, the shower turning on. The apartment filled with the smell of bacon and eggs and the muffled sound of her terrible singing.
This was what home sounded like.
For eight years, I'd forgotten.
I was never going to forget again.
Engine 295 was off the chopping block. Permanently.
Rodriguez called us together after morning drills. The common room went quiet the moment he walked in. Something in his face. That particular set to his jaw that meant news.
"I just got off the phone with the commissioner's office."
No one moved.
"The investigation into the corruption that nearly closed this house has resulted in multiple arrests and resignations." Rodriguez paused. Let each word land. "What you don't know is that the commissioner has been reviewing the documentation that made those arrests possible."
He looked at me across the room. Something shifted in his expression. Something that might have been pride.
"Stone. The commissioner wants to recognize you formally. For your years of documentation. For the work that exposed the corruption and kept this house open." He paused. "There's going to be a ceremony. Here, at the firehouse. Next week."
Silence.
Then Shane started clapping.
Brian joined in. Then Ortiz. Then Martinez. Then everyone, the whole crew on their feet, applauding like I'd done something heroic instead of just filing reports no one read.
"Alright, alright." Rodriguez held up a hand. The noise subsided, barely. "The ceremony is Thursday at 1400. Full dress uniforms. The commissioner will be here personally." He looked at me again. "Stone. Say something."
I'd never been good at this part. The attention. The recognition.
"I just did my job," I said.
"No." Rodriguez's voice was firm. "You did more than your job. You did what was right, even when no one was listening." He nodded once. "Thursday. Don't be late."
Shane clapped me on the shoulder. Brian pulled me into a hug that was more tackle than embrace.
But all I could think about was Sloane. About seeing her face when she heard.
Sloane got home at seven.
Her key in the lock. The familiar rhythm of it. The door opening. The thud of her bag hitting the floor.
The soft exhale she always made when she finally stopped moving.
I was at the stove, stirring the sauce. Nothing fancy. Pasta with marinara, garlic bread in the oven, a salad because she kept saying we needed to eat more vegetables.
"Something smells amazing." Her arms slid around my waist from behind. "You cooked."
I turned in her arms. Cupped her face. Kissed her properly, the way I'd been wanting to since she walked out the door this morning.
"How was work?" I asked when we finally broke apart.
She groaned. Hopped up onto the counter, legs swinging. "Chaotic. The temporary office is a nightmare. Too small, bad lighting, and the coffee machine keeps breaking." She rubbed her temples. "Building won't be ready for at least eight months. Structural assessments and insurance disputes."
"That bad?"
"Marianne's handling it, but she's stressed. New security protocols, evacuation procedures, mandatory fire safety training for the whole staff." A wry smile. "I've been asked to consult on that last one. Apparently surviving a building fire makes me an expert."
"You are an expert. You survived a building fire."
"I survived because my boyfriend broke down the door with a halligan."
She reached out, hooked her fingers in my belt loops, pulled me closer. "How was your shift?"
"Good." I settled my hands on her thighs, thumbs tracing circles against the fabric of her pants. "Actually, more than good. Rodriguez called us together this morning. The fire commissioner wants to give me a commendation."
Sloane's eyes widened. "Garrett. That's amazing."
"The documentation. The reports that helped expose the corruption. They're doing a ceremony at the firehouse next week."
"A ceremony." She was grinning now, that bright, fierce grin I loved. "My boyfriend is getting decorated by the fire commissioner."
"It's not a big deal."
"It's a huge deal." She pulled me closer, wrapped her legs around my waist. "Seven years, Garrett. Seven years of filing reports no one read." She kissed me. Hard. "I'm so proud of you."
"Will you be there?"
"Are you kidding?" She pulled back, looked at me like I'd asked if the sun was going to rise. "Of course I'll be there. I wouldn't miss watching my man get decorated for anything."
Something warm spread through my chest. Pride. Relief. Love so big my ribs couldn't contain it.
"Thursday," I said. "Two o'clock. Full dress uniforms."
"I'll be in the front row." She kissed me again, softer this time. "Cheering embarrassingly loud."
"Please don't."
"I'm absolutely going to." She was laughing now, her whole face bright with it. "I'm going to be that person. The one who whoops when they call your name. The one who cries during the speech."
"You wouldn't."
She wiped at imaginary tears. "That's my baby up there. Getting recognized for his bravery and dedication. I'm so emotional."
I silenced her with a kiss. She laughed against my mouth, then softened. Fingers sliding into my hair. Pulling me closer.
The sauce was simmering behind me. The garlic bread was probably burning.
I reached back. Turned off the stove.
"What are you doing?" Though the smile on her face said she already knew.
"Taking you to bed."
"But I'm hungry!"
"We'll be quick." I lifted her off the counter. She wrapped her legs around my waist, arms around my neck.
"You always say that."
"And I'm always right."
"You're never right." She was laughing as I carried her toward the bedroom. "We're never quick."
"Then you'll just have to be hungry for a little longer."
Her laughter followed us down the hall.
Thursday came faster than I expected.
The firehouse had been transformed. Someone had polished the apparatus until it gleamed. The common room had been rearranged, chairs set up in rows facing a small podium someone had borrowed from somewhere. The American flag hung beside the FDNY flag, both of them pressed and perfect.
I stood in the locker room, adjusting my dress uniform for the third time. Jacket stiff. Collar too tight.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad." Shane, already dressed, looking annoyingly comfortable. "Relax."
"Easy for you to say."
"It is easy for me to say. I'm not the one getting a medal pinned on my chest by the fire commissioner." He grinned. "Although if they ever decide to give out awards for most improved reputation, I'm a shoo-in."
"Maya improved your reputation. You just showed up."
"I showed up consistently. That counts for something."
Brian appeared in the doorway. "They're ready for you. Commissioner's here. Sloane's in the front row, just like she promised." He paused. "She's already taken about fifty pictures of the empty podium."
"Great."