Chapter 2
STELLAN
“Look who decided to visit the living,” one of the guys calls out from the table at the firehouse, lifting his coffee mug in salute. “Thought you’d forgotten about us, Daniels.”
“I brought muffins,” I say, holding up the paper bag like a peace offering.
Phoenix snorts. “You’re forgiven.”
I grab a coffee and lean against the counter, careful with my left side. The shoulder is stiff this morning. Not screaming or sharp. Just… there. A constant presence, like a bad memory you don’t get to forget.
I roll it once, slowly, feeling the tight pull along the joint.
“PT today?” Dark asks from his usual spot, massive arms folded like he’s carved from something sturdier than the rest of us.
“Later,” I say. “Bands and ice.”
“Still sucks,” JJ says sympathetically, mouth full of blueberry muffin.
He’s not wrong.
I should be on shift right now. Ten-hour days, three—sometimes four—days a week. I work on the ladder truck. Roof ops, ventilation, sweat, adrenaline, and knowing exactly where I fit.
Instead, I’m here as a visitor.
We’re halfway through the second round of coffee when the tones drop.
Everything changes in a heartbeat.
Chairs scrape back, cups are abandoned and my team moves on instinct, muscle memory snapping everyone into place. I feel it in my bones—the reflex to go, to move, to be useful.
But I can’t.
I stand there, useless, watching as they gear up and pour out of the doors like they always do.
The bay doors thunder shut behind them.
The silence that follows is worse.
I exhale slowly and set my coffee down with a sigh. There’s no reason to linger. No job for me here today.
I head home.
My apartment is quiet in a way that feels wrong and lonely. I can’t wait to be back to work and on the truck, feeling the rush as we speed to an emergency.
I hang up my jacket, drop my keys in the bowl by the door, and head straight to the bedroom. The physical therapy band hangs looped around the doorknob, waiting.
I brace my feet and start the stretches.
Slow pull. Hold. Release.
My shoulder resists, then gives a fraction. I grit my teeth through the familiar burn. Not pain, exactly. More like a reminder.
This is where I fucked up.
The memory comes whether I want it or not.
Smoke thick enough to chew on. Heat pressing in from all sides. The scream wasn’t loud—just high and short-lived, cutting through everything else.
There.
The kid was wedged behind a half-collapsed wall, eyes wide, face streaked with soot. Too small to understand what was happening. Too scared to move.
I’d reached for him without thinking.
The beam shifted, and the ladder slipped. My shoulder took the hit as I twisted, shielding him, taking the brunt of the weight.
I remember the sound more than anything—the sickening pop that didn’t belong to the fire.
The kid cried when I handed him off outside. He was alive and shaking, but alive nonetheless.
It was worth it then, and it’s still worth it today. My doctor doesn't see it that way.
I finish the last rep and drop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling until my breathing evens out.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Brielle.
I met her a while back on one of the calls you never forget.
A domestic disturbance in a small apartment. When we got there, it was quiet. She stood there with her arms wrapped around herself, apologizing for things she didn’t do with bruises blooming like shadows on her face and neck she tried to hide.
I positioned myself between her and him without saying a word. He shouted and came toward her, and she flinched with every move. Luckily, she left that night.
Months later, when I ran into her again at the doctor’s office, I almost didn’t recognize her.
Her hair was lighter, cut blunt at her shoulders, the ends brushing the collar of her jacket when she moved.
She met my eyes without flinching, chin tipped up just slightly, and her hands rested easily over her stomach.
Protective but calm, fingers splayed in a way that wasn’t anxious—just present.
We’ve kept in touch since. Coffee and sometimes lunch here and there.
The text isn’t from her, though. It’s from an unknown number.
Hey—my name is Hartley Quinn. I got your info from a mutual friend… Brielle. She said you might be tutoring right now?
Tutoring wasn’t part of the plan. Neither was being home this much, or waking up without a shift to report to, or measuring my days in stretches and ice packs instead of calls and clocks.
But it fills the space, and it gives my hands something to do that doesn’t involve a ladder or a ceiling that might give way.
I’m good at it, too, always have been. Back in high school, I helped my little cousins with homework. In college, I tutored on the side—math, reading, whatever they needed. I liked the way things clicked for kids, the moment the frustration left them.
If I wasn’t a firefighter, I would’ve been a teacher.
So tutoring, meeting families where they are, slowing myself down instead of charging forward—it feels like a different version of the same instinct. Keep someone safe. Help them find their footing. Step back once they’ve got it.
I glance at my shoulder, stiff and aching, a reminder that this isn’t forever—but neither is anything.
Hartley’s message sits there, careful and polite.
I pick up my phone and type back.
Me: Hey, Hartley. Yeah she texted earlier and mentioned she gave you my info. I’m Stellan. I’ve helped a few families while I’m on medical leave. Want to tell me a little about what you’re looking for?
The reply comes slower this time.
Hartley: It’d be for my niece. She’s four. Nonverbal right now. I want to make sure she’s ready for kindergarten next year—but more than that, I want her to feel safe.
I know that tone. I picture someone standing between a kid and the world, hoping it’s enough. I type carefully.
Me: That makes sense. I usually start by meeting the kid first. No pressure. If she’s not comfortable, we don’t push it. I used to tutor in high school and college. Teaching was my second choice for a career.
Me: Would you want to meet Friday evening? I can stop by, introduce myself, see how she feels.
The dots appear.
Hartley: Friday at 5pm works. But if she’s not okay with it, you leave. No hard feelings.
A smile tugs at my mouth.
Me: Absolutely. She sets the pace.
When he sends the address, I lock the phone and set it down. The firehouse feels farther away than it ever has.