Chapter 3 - Cade
I make it exactly three steps into the hallway before my crew is on me like a pack of wolves who've just caught the scent of blood.
"You have a kid?" Rowan is the first to speak, his voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and awe. "You have an actual, living, breathing kid?"
"Apparently." The word comes out hollow.
I keep walking, heading toward the locker room, but they follow. Of course they follow. This is the most interesting thing that's happened at the station since Asher accidentally set his own jacket on fire during a training exercise.
"How did you not know?" Griffin asks, his brain already trying to piece together the logistics. "You've been here eight years. That kid is what, seven? Eight?"
"Seven." The number feels surreal. Seven years of birthdays and first days of school and scraped knees and bedtime stories, and I wasn't there for any of it. "She's seven."
"Fuck," Hudson mutters, and coming from him, the quietest member of our crew who uses words like ammunition, only when necessary, it carries weight.
Dallas hasn't said anything yet. He's just walking beside me, his presence solid and steady, waiting for me to either break down or lash out. He knows me well enough to recognize I'm barely holding it together, that the shock is the only thing keeping me upright.
I push through the locker room door. The smell of industrial soap and clean gear is grounding, something normal in a world that just tilted completely sideways.
"So that woman," Asher starts, leaning against a locker as I yank mine open. "Sierra, right? That's your… What, ex-girlfriend? Ex-wife?"
"Ex-girlfriend." I pull out my civilian clothes, trying not to think about how Sierra looked standing in that conference room.
Still beautiful. More beautiful, maybe, in the way that comes from growing into yourself.
And absolutely terrified, her hands shaking even as she tried to stand strong for our daughter.
Our daughter.
Christ.
"And she just... didn't tell you?" Rowan sounds personally offended on my behalf. "For seven years? That's… I mean, that's—"
"Cold," Asher supplies. "That's cold as hell."
"You don't know the situation." The words come out sharper than I intend, defensive in a way that surprises me.
I'm angry at Sierra. Furious, hurt, confused, but I'm also the only one who gets to be angry at her. These guys don't know her, don't know what we were, don't know what the fire did to us.
"Then explain it to us," Dallas says, and it's not a command. It's an offer. A lifeline.
I sit down heavily on the bench, my clean clothes forgotten in my lap. The adrenaline from the call and the shock of Sierra's appearance is starting to wear off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing to do with the three hours we spent fighting the apartment fire.
"We were together for two years," I hear myself saying. "Before the warehouse fire. Before I came here. She was—" I stop, searching for words. "She was everything. The kind of woman you marry, you know? The kind you build a life with."
No one speaks. They're listening, really listening, and I realize this is the most I've ever told them about my life before Blackwater Falls. In eight years, they've gotten bits and pieces, enough to know I was running from something, not enough to know what.
"Then the fire happened." My hands clench into fists on my thighs. "Seven people died. I pulled twelve out, but seven didn't make it. And I… I couldn't stay there. Couldn't drive past those buildings every day, couldn't see the memorials, couldn't face the families. Couldn't face myself."
"So, you left," Hudson says. No judgment in his voice, just understanding. He's got his own demons from his Army days. We all do.
"I left. Told Sierra I needed a fresh start, somewhere with no reminders.
She said she understood." I swallow hard, remembering that conversation.
The way she'd held my face in her hands and told me to go, to save myself, even though I could see her heart breaking.
"Two months later, she found out she was pregnant. "
"And didn't tell you." Griffin's voice is neutral.
"She says she thought it would either save me or destroy me, and she wasn't willing to risk the latter."
Silence. Then Rowan lets out a low whistle. "That's actually kind of—"
"Fucked up," Asher finishes. "That's fucked up, man. I'm sorry."
"Is it though?" The question comes from Dallas, and we all turn to look at him.
He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his captain's face on, the one that says he's thinking three steps ahead of everyone else.
"You left because you couldn't handle where you were.
She was pregnant with your baby. Maybe she made the choice she thought was right. "
"By not giving me a choice at all?" The anger flares hot and quick. "By deciding for me what I could or couldn't handle?"
"I'm not saying it was right," Dallas says evenly. "I'm saying maybe it wasn't as simple as right or wrong. Maybe it was just hard, and she did the best she could."
I want to argue, want to rage against the unfairness of it all, but the words die in my throat. Because part of me, the part I don't want to acknowledge, understands.
I left. I walked away from her, from our life, from everything we'd built together. I was barely functional, drowning in guilt and nightmares and the kind of grief that makes you want to stop existing.
Would I have been any good to a baby? To Sierra? Or would I have dragged them both down with me?
"She looks terrified," Rowan observes. "Like she thinks you're going to eviscerate her."
"I'm not going to—" I stop, running a hand through my hair. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't know how to process any of this."
"Start with the kid," Hudson suggests. "The rest you can figure out later. But that little girl in there? She just met her dad for the first time. That's what matters right now."
He's right. They're all right. Whatever anger or hurt or confusion I'm feeling about Sierra needs to take a backseat to Ruby. To my daughter, who's been waiting seven years to meet me.
My daughter.
The words still don't feel real.
"What's she like?" Griffin asks. "I mean, besides looking exactly like you. That's kind of spooky, by the way. It's like someone put you through a shrinking machine and added a ponytail."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "She seems smart. Talked about daylilies and asked if I was really her dad with this—" I gesture vaguely. "This combination of hope and fear that made me want to promise her anything."
"You're in trouble," Asher says with a grin. "Daughters have a way of wrapping their dads around their little fingers."
"I don't even know her." The reality of it hits me fresh, painful. "She's seven years old and I don't know anything about her. Her favorite color, what she likes to eat, if she's good at school, what makes her laugh, nothing. I know nothing."
"So, learn." Dallas pushes off the wall, coming to sit beside me on the bench. "Go outside with her. Talk to her. Ask questions. Be present. That's all you can do."
"And Sierra?" I look at him, needing guidance from someone who's not drowning in the same emotional whirlpool I am. "What do I do about Sierra?"
"What do you want to do?"
That's the question, isn't it? What do I want? To yell at her for keeping this secret? To thank her for protecting Ruby from my worst moments? To ask her why she still looks at me like I'm something precious when I walked away from her eight years ago?
To ask if she still loves me, or if that died when I left?
"I don't know," I admit. "When I saw her standing there, I—" I stop, unsure how to articulate the complicated tangle of emotions. "For a second, before I saw Ruby, it was like no time had passed at all. Like I could reach out and touch her, and we'd still fit the way we used to."
"Did you love her?" Rowan asks quietly. "I mean, really love her?"
"Yeah." The word comes easily, truth I've never questioned. "I loved her more than I knew how to handle. She was the best thing in my life, and I left her anyway because I was too fucked up to stay."
"And now she's back," Griffin observes. "With your kid. What does that mean for you?"
"It means everything just got a hell of a lot more complicated." I stand, grabbing my clean clothes. "I need to shower. I smell like a chimney and I'm taking my daughter for hot chocolate."
My daughter. I'm going to have to get used to saying that.
They take the hint, filing out of the locker room one by one. Dallas lingers, his hand on my shoulder.
"You're going to be okay," he says. Not a question. A statement. "This is a lot, but you're going to figure it out. And we've got your back, whatever you need."
"Thanks, Cap." My voice is rough. "For not… I don't know. For not making this worse."
"Family doesn't make things worse. We make things bearable." He squeezes my shoulder once and leaves.
I'm alone with my thoughts for the first time since Sierra dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of my life. I strip off my gear, my movements automatic, and step into the shower.
The hot water sluices over me, washing away the soot and sweat but doing nothing for the chaos in my head. I have a daughter. Sierra kept her from me. Sierra's here, in Blackwater Falls, in my station, looking at me with those brown eyes that used to see all the parts of me I tried to hide.
And Ruby. God, Ruby. Those blue eyes that are mirrors of my own, watching me with a mix of hope and nervousness that made something in my chest crack open.
I think about what Sierra said, that she was afraid I'd look at Ruby and feel nothing. How could she think that? How could she look at that little girl, our little girl, and think I wouldn't love her on sight?
But then, I left. I walked away from everything, including Sierra. Why wouldn't she think I'd walk away from this too?
The thought makes me feel sick.
I finish showering quickly, dressing in jeans and a henley that's seen better days. My hands are shaking, really shaking now, not just the slight tremor that comes when I'm alone. I brace them on the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
I look tired. Old. The scar on my chin stands out pale against my jaw, a reminder of the beam that nearly took my head off two years ago. My eyes are shadowed, haunted in the way they always are after a call that brings back memories of the warehouse fire.
"Get it together, Lawson," I mutter to my reflection. "You're about to have hot chocolate with your daughter. Don't fuck this up."
My daughter.
I need to stop being surprised by that every time I think it.
When I emerge from the locker room, the hallway is suspiciously empty. The crew has made themselves scarce, giving us privacy, though I can hear the murmur of voices from the common room. They're probably watching through the windows, the nosy bastards.
The conference room door is still closed. I stand outside it for a moment, trying to gather myself, trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to say or do or be in this situation.
Then I hear Ruby's laugh, bright and clear, and Sierra's softer response, and I realize I'm stalling.
I open the door.
They're sitting close together now, Sierra's arm around Ruby's shoulders, and something about the picture they make, the obvious love and trust between them, makes my chest hurt.
Sierra's been doing this alone for seven years.
Every scraped knee and nightmare and triumph and challenge, she's handled it by herself.
Because I wasn't there.
Because I left.
"Ready?" I ask, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
Ruby jumps up, all previous nervousness apparently forgotten. "Ready! Mom says the place you're talking about has marshmallows. The really good kind."
"The really good kind," I confirm. "And whipped cream. Real whipped cream, not the stuff from a can."
"I like you already." Ruby grins, and it's my grin, the one I haven't seen on my own face in years. The one that disappeared after the fire.
Sierra stands more slowly, gathering her purse. She's still nervous, I can see it on the set of her shoulders, the way she's not quite meeting my eyes. Like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop, for me to tell her this is all a mistake.
"Sierra." I wait until she looks at me. "We need to talk. Really talk. But—" I glance at Ruby, who's practically bouncing with excitement. "But that can wait. Today is about her."
Relief floods Sierra's face, so profound it's almost painful to watch. "Thank you," she says softly. "Thank you for… for trying. I know this is—"
"Yeah." I don't need her to finish. We both know what this is. "Come on. Before that place runs out of the good marshmallows."
Ruby takes off toward the door, and Sierra moves to follow, but I catch her arm gently. She freezes, her eyes wide, and I realize this is the first time I've touched her in eight years.
She's warm. Real. Here.
"I'm angry," I say quietly, low enough that Ruby can't hear. "I'm hurt and confused and I don't know how to process any of this. But I'm also—" I stop, searching for the right words. "I'm also glad you came. That you trusted me enough to come."
Sierra's eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them back. "I was so scared you'd hate me."
"I don't hate you." It's the truth, even though part of me thinks I should. "I don't know what I feel, but it's not that."
"Okay." She nods, her throat working as she swallows. "Okay. That's, that's something."
"Mom! Dad!" Ruby's voice calls from the doorway. "Are you coming?"
Dad. She called me Dad again, so easily, like she's been practicing the word her whole life.
Maybe she has.
"Coming, Ruby," I call back, and Sierra and I follow our daughter out into the hallway.
The crew is definitely watching through the common room windows. I catch at least three faces pressed against the glass before they scatter, trying to look casual. Subtle as a brick, all of them.
"Your coworkers are spying on us," Sierra observes, a hint of humor in her voice.
"They're not my coworkers. They're my family." The words come out before I can think about them. "And yeah, they're definitely spying. I'll hear about this for the next six months."
"Will they give you a hard time?"
"Probably. But they'll also have my back." I push open the station door, letting in the cool spring air. "Whatever happens next, they've got me. That's what matters."
What happens next. As if I have any idea what that might be.
All I know is that an hour ago, I was a firefighter with a simple life and a complicated past.
Now I'm a father.
And the woman I never stopped loving is back in my life with our daughter.
Simple is officially over.
But as I watch Ruby skip ahead of us, chattering about whether hot chocolate tastes better with one marshmallow or five, I think maybe complicated isn't the worst thing that could happen to me.
Maybe it's exactly what I need.