Chapter Twelve Evan
There are two kinds of people in this world.
People who, after a long and genuinely taxing shift that involved a cathedral fire, a runaway bride, and approximately four hours of sleep in a bunk that was not designed for someone my height, go home and rest.
And then there’s me.
I’ve been in the basement for forty minutes, working through a circuit that I designed myself during a particularly boring overnight shift three years ago and have been refining ever since.
It’s not complicated. It doesn’t need to be.
The point is not complexity; the point is that when I’m doing this, I’m not thinking about anything else, and sometimes not thinking about anything else is the most useful thing I can do with an hour.
I'm on my fourth set when my phone rings.
I catch it on the second ring, tapping the earpiece without breaking rhythm. “Yeah.”
“Ev.” Erick's voice, warm and already doing that thing where he sounds like he's about to tell me something for my own good. “You working?”
“Secondary rotation today,” I say, dropping from the bar and reaching for my water. “Most of the crew went out on a call. I'm holding the station. What's up?”
“Nothing, nothing. Just checking in.” A pause that means it's not nothing. “Mom wants to know if you're coming for Easter.”
“It's two months away, Erick.”
“You know how she is. She needs a headcount.” Another pause. “Also I saw that church fire on the news yesterday. That was your crew right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We responded.”
“Crazy. You good?”
“I'm fine.”
“Because it looked bad. They were saying the bride went missing and—”
“Erick.” I switch to speaker and roll my shoulder out. “I'm fine. Tell mom I'll let her know about Easter.”
“She worries,” he says. “We all do. You know how it is, being the youngest—”
“I'll call her this week,” I say, easy, the way I always say things I don't want to argue about.
“Alright, alright.” He backs off the way he always does, not because he's convinced but because he knows when I'm done. “Stay safe out there yeah?”
“Always,” I say, and end the call.
I pull the earpiece out and stand there for a second.
Being the youngest.
He didn't mean anything by it. None of them ever do.
That's the thing about Erick and the rest of them, they love me completely and in a way that has never quite managed to stretch far enough to include the version of me that exists outside of being their little brother.
The one who holds this station together on secondary rotation days.
Who knows these streets well enough that the FDNY keeps us intact despite every bureaucratic reason not to.
But sure. Being the youngest.
I grab the bar again and I'm midway through my next set when something clangs hard overhead, followed by a second smaller sound rolling across concrete.
I drop from the bar, take the stairs, and come up into the bay.
Empty. I scan the space and then hear it, the sound of someone moving carefully down the far hallway, the uneven rhythm of someone favoring one foot.
I follow it.
She's stopped outside the equipment storage room with one shoulder against the wall and her weight shifted off her left foot, staring at the closed door in front of her. She hasn't heard me yet.
I lean against the wall across from her and wait.
She turns and sees me and straightens immediately, which costs her something in the left foot judging by the way her jaw tightens for half a second before she smooths it over.
“I was in the admin office,” she says, before I can ask. “Weston gave me something to work on. My foot started complaining so I thought I'd take a shower. Max said the shower was at the end of the hall but I'm clearly in the wrong part of the building.”
I look at the door she was staring at. “That's equipment storage.”
“I gathered,” she says. “Eventually.”
“Showers are on the ground floor. Other side of the building.”
She closes her eyes for exactly one second. “Of course they are.”
“How's the foot?”
“Fine,” she says, in the tone of someone for whom it is not entirely fine.
I look at her for a second. She looks back at me, and I watch her take in the shirtless situation with the focused neutrality of someone trying to be normal about something that is giving her difficulty.
“I'll show you where they are,” I say. “But you can't shower with those bandages.”
She looks down at her feet. “I was going to be careful.”
“Careful doesn't waterproof gauze.” I nod back toward the basement. “I've got waterproof patches downstairs. Put those over the dressings and you won't wreck Jase's work.”
She considers this. “Do you know how to put them on?”
“I know how to do most things,” I say, which comes out with slightly more weight than I intended.
She holds my gaze for a second. “Okay,” she says.
I go back down to the basement and get the patches from the kit on the wall and come back up to find her sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, weight off her feet.
I crouch in front of her and apply the patches over the existing dressings, sealing the edges properly.
Her feet are small. I focus on the task.
“Jase did good work,” I say, checking the seal on the arch laceration.
“He keeps telling me he went to Harvard.”
“Two semesters,” I confirm. “He's insufferable about it.”
She laughs, soft and quick.
I finish the second foot and straighten up.
“You said you'd show me the showers,” she says.
“I did,” I agree, and pick up my t-shirt from where I left it on the step beside her, still not putting it on, and lead her down the hall.
The shower room is quiet and tiled, the air slightly cooler than the rest of the station. I turn on the water first, testing the temperature with my hand until steam begins to rise. I set a clean towel on the bench for her, then step back, still shirtless, my skin still gleaming from the workout.
Brielle stands there, clearly aware of how small the space feels with me in it.
She looks at the shower, then at me, then back at the shower. Then she reaches for the hem of her shirt herself and stops, like she's thought of something.
She looks at me. I look at her.
“Go ahead,” she says. I cross the space and take the hem from her hands carefully, and she lets me.”
She lifts her arms, and I peel the shirt off slowly, mindful of the fresh bruise on her temple and the bandages on her feet. My fingers brush her sides as the fabric comes away, leaving her in her bra and the borrowed sweatpants.
The warm air and the way she looks at me make her skin prickle.
I crouch again to ease the sweatpants down her legs, my palms sliding along her thighs and calves with deliberate gentleness.
When the pants pool at her ankles, she steps out of them, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder for balance. My breath is warm against her skin as I rise.
The cool air hits her breasts, tightening her nipples, and I do not look away. I let my gaze travel over her, appreciatively, before I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and draw them down as well.
She stands completely bare in front of me now, the waterproof patches dark against her skin. I turn the shower spray a little hotter, then guide her under the water with a hand at the small of her back. The heat seems to ease something in her muscles.
I step in behind her, still wearing my workout pants, the fabric darkening as the water hits it. My hands find her shoulders first, slick with water, and I begin to move in slow, firm strokes down her back.
I grab some soap I work it into her skin, massaging the tension from her neck and shoulders with strong, knowing fingers. The touch starts practical, but it quickly turns intimate as my hands slide lower, tracing the curve of her waist, then around to her stomach.
She leans back against my chest, letting the water cascade over us. I cup her breasts, my thumbs brushing over her nipples in slow circles until they are hard and sensitive under my touch. A soft sound escapes her as I feel heat build in her body.
One of my hands drifts lower, sliding between her thighs, my fingers teasing along her folds with light, deliberate strokes that make her hips shift forward, seeking more.
I am already hard against her lower back, the thick length of me obvious even through the wet fabric of my pants. She reaches back and palms me through the material, and I feel myself twitch under her hand.
I make a low sound in my throat and press closer, my mouth finding the side of her neck as my fingers continue their slow exploration between her legs, circling her clit with enough pressure to make her breath catch.
For several long minutes, there is only the sound of the water, our shared breathing, and the slick glide of my hands over her body. I keep every touch measured and confident, giving her exactly what she seems to want.
My free hand keeps stroking her breast while the other works her closer to the edge, two fingers slipping inside her, curling gently as my thumb maintains steady pressure on her clit.
Then she exhales.
My movements are slow. My hand stills between her thighs, and I rest my forehead against the back of her shoulder, breathing hard. When I speak, my voice comes out quieter than before.
She turns in my arms, water streaming down both of us. She searches my face, and I know she sees the honesty there. She does not push. She simply nods, understanding without needing me to explain it.
I step back, give her one last slow look, then reach for the towel and hand it to her.
“I will be right outside if you need anything,” I say.
***
I lean against the wall outside the shower room after, arms crossed, staring at the opposite wall.
This is fine. This is a completely normal situation that I am handling with my characteristic ease, good humor, and general comfort with all varieties of human experience.
Except that I am not, actually, handling it with any of those things.
I am standing in a hallway with wet pants and my t-shirt still in my hand because I forgot to put it on somewhere between the basement and here, and I am thinking about the way she looked at me when I pulled back, not with disappointment or confusion but with a kind understanding that I was not expecting and am not sure I deserved.
The thing about women, in my experience, is that they tend to fall into predictable categories in moments like this. There are those who are upset. The ones who are relieved. The ones who want to talk about it immediately. The ones who pretend it didn’t happen.
Brielle Hayes did none of those things.
She just looked at me, calm and direct, and said okay, in the tone of someone who has understood something without being told it.
I find this profoundly unsettling.
I put my t-shirt on.
This is the problem with people who actually see you.
You spend a long time being very good at showing people exactly what you want them to see, exactly the version of yourself that works best in any given situation, the charming one, the easy one, the one who makes everything feel light and uncomplicated, and it works, it works consistently and well, right up until the moment someone looks past it.
I have been looked past before.
It has never felt quite like this.
The water shuts off inside.
I push off the wall and walk back toward the stairs, because standing in the hallway when she comes out will communicate something I’m not ready to communicate, and I need a few minutes with my own thoughts before I see her face again.
In the basement, I get back on the pull-up bar.
I do twelve more than I was planning to.
It doesn’t help.