17. I’d Burn Every Bridge Twice
I'd Burn Every Bridge Twice
Chapter Seventeen
I'd gone from one of the guys to an outsider in one night.
It shouldn't have bothered me; I’d faced far worse in Afghanistan, had survived isolation and danger that made a cold shoulder seem laughable by comparison.
But this was different. This was a choice between two parts of my life, and I'd chosen without hesitation.
It did bother me. Not because I regretted it—I'd do it again in a heartbeat, would burn every bridge twice over if it meant protecting Vera—but because the silence where camaraderie used to be felt like mourning something I hadn't realized I'd valued until it was gone.
Davids and Emerson were professional. Coldly, painfully, meticulously professional.
They responded to orders with clipped affirmatives, completed tasks mechanically, showed up on time and left exactly when their shifts ended.
But the easy brotherhood was gone, evaporated like morning dew under the harsh Arizonan sun.
The jokes we used to trade while checking equipment, the casual ribbing about whose turn it was to make coffee, the comfortable silences that came from men who'd faced death together and come out the other side—all of it vanished, leaving behind a hollow echo of what we'd once been.
Conversations died when I walked into a room, sentences cut off mid-word like someone had flipped a switch.
Eyes slid away from mine, finding sudden fascination with equipment that didn't need checking, paperwork that could wait, anything to avoid acknowledging my presence.
They'd nod in curt, minimal acknowledgments that I existed, and find somewhere else to be.
I caught Emerson laughing with Stevens one afternoon in the bay, the kid telling some animated story about a date gone wrong, his hands gesturing wildly.
The moment I rounded the corner of Engine 19, Emerson's face went blank, shuttered like someone had drawn the curtains on whatever warmth had been there.
The laughter stopped. He muttered something about checking harness clips and disappeared toward the equipment room, leaving Stevens standing there awkwardly, the punchline dying on his lips.
Stevens looked at me apologetically, his young face torn between loyalty to his crewmates and respect for his forewoman. "He's just—"
"I know what he is," I said. The words came out edged with frustration I hadn't meant to direct at the kid.
Stevens flinched, and guilt twisted in my gut.
This wasn't his fault. He hadn't been the one to say that shit at the barbecue, hadn't even fully heard what Davids and Emerson said about Vera, hadn't been part of any of it.
But he was caught in the crossfire anyway, forced to navigate the tension that now permeated every inch of the station.
"Sorry," I added. "That wasn't fair to you."
He shrugged, but the easiness between us had fractured too. Another casualty of my choice to put Vera first.
Miller found me in the equipment bay three days after the barbecue, inspecting rappel lines with more focus than the task required.
I was checking every inch of rope, running my fingers over the braided nylon, looking for wear that probably wasn't there.
Anything to avoid the awkward silences in the common room, the weight of Davids' and Emerson's resentment pressing against my shoulders like smoke inhalation, suffocating and impossible to escape.
"They'll get over it," Miller said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet as he settled his considerable bulk against the workbench. His arms crossed over his chest, and he watched me with those knowing eyes that had seen three decades of crew drama play out in a hundred different variations.
I didn't look up from the rope, didn't trust my expression to stay neutral. "You think I was wrong?"
"I think you did what you had to do. But you made them look bad in front of their Cap and their partners. That's gonna sting for a while." He paused, letting the words settle between us. "Male pride's a funny thing. Fragile as hell, but heavy as concrete."
My hands stilled on the rope, my jaw tightening. "I don't regret it."
"Didn't say you should. Just saying it's gonna take time." He shifted his weight, the workbench creaking under him. "Question is, can you live with that? The distance? The cold shoulder? The way they look right through you like you're a ghost?"
I thought about Vera, about the way sunlight caught in her golden hair, turning her into something ethereal, something so impossibly beautiful it hurt to look away.
Her laugh, bright and genuine and so full of joy that it made my chest ache.
The way she fit perfectly against me in the quiet hours after midnight, her breath warm against my collarbone, her fingers tracing Lucas and Santi's names in the dark, making my heart clench from the gesture.
The way she'd looked at the barbecue before everything went to shit, happy and relaxed and belonging, her hand finding mine in front of everyone like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Yeah," I said quietly, certainty settling into my bones like resolve before a difficult rappel. "I can live with it. I’ve lived through worse."
Miller nodded slowly, approval flickering across his weathered face. "Good. Because it might be a while before they come around. If they come around at all. Some men never forgive being called out, even when they deserve it."
"Then they don't." I finally looked up, meeting his gaze directly. "I won't apologize for defending her. Not to them, not to anyone. What they said about Vera—" My tone hardened, anger flaring hot in my chest at the memory. "They had no right."
"No," Miller agreed. "They didn't." He pushed off the workbench, straightening to his full height. "For what it's worth, Alves? She's good people. Your girl. Worth fighting for."
"I know," I said. "She is."
Rodriguez called me into his office on Thursday, the door closing with a deliberate click that made my stomach tighten with apprehension.
I'd been expecting this conversation since the barbecue, had been mentally preparing for it during the long, tense shifts when Davids and Emerson treated me like a necessary evil rather than their crew forewoman.
"Sit."
I sat in the worn chair across from his desk, the same chair where I'd sat for my initial interview just a little over eight years ago, young and raw and desperate for purpose.
The office looked the same. A cluttered desk, photos of his kids on the wall, the faint smell of coffee and old paper, but everything felt different now.
Heavier.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, studying me with that intense focus that had made recruits nervous since before I was born.
His salt-and-pepper hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the window, and I could see the lines around his eyes deepening as he considered his words.
"We need to talk about crew cohesion."
"I'm not apologizing for defending my girl, Cap." The words came out firm, non-negotiable. I held his gaze, letting him see I meant it. "Not to them, not to you, not to anyone. If that's what this conversation is about, we're done here."
"I'm not asking you to." His voice was even, measured, carrying the weight of twenty-two years of leading men into danger. "What they said was out of line. I made that clear at the barbecue, and I made it clearer afterward when I pulled them aside. But you need to figure out how to work with them."
"I can work with them fine." My jaw tightened. "Can they work with me?"
"That's what I'm asking you to find out.
" He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and I could see the concern etched into his hardened features, not for the crew dynamics, but for what might happen when those dynamics fractured in the field.
"We can't have tension in the crew. Not when lives are on the line.
You know this, Alves. I've seen you lead teams through hell.
You're one of the best crew forewomen or men or fore-non-binary person, whatever, that this station has ever seen.
But right now, there's a crack in this unit, and we need to seal it before fire season hits full force. "
He was right. God damn it, he was right, and I hated it.
In a fire, we had to trust each other completely, had to know without question that the person on the other end of the radio would be there, would have your back, would make the hard calls without hesitation.
If Davids and Emerson couldn't trust me, or I couldn't trust them...
if someone hesitated for even a second because of resentment or wounded pride or because they were thinking about the barbecue instead of the flames...
"What do you want me to do?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer, already felt the weight of what he was asking settling onto me like a loaded gun in my fucking face.
"Talk to them. Clear the air. Find a way forward.
" He sighed, and suddenly he looked older, worn down by years of balancing crew dynamics with life-and-death situations.
"I know it's not fair. They're the ones who fucked up.
But you're my crew forewoman. Leadership means sometimes swallowing your pride for the good of the team. "
I wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that I hadn't done anything wrong, that asking me to smooth things over was asking me to shoulder responsibility for their disrespect, their objectification, their complete lack of basic human decency toward the woman I loved.
But Rodriguez was right about one thing.
Leadership meant making hard choices. It meant putting the team first, even when it burned.
"I'll handle it," I said finally. "But I won't apologize. I won't pretend that what they said was acceptable, and I won't back down. If they can't respect Vera, they need to at least respect that she's off-limits in locker room talk.”