Chapter 9
STELLAN
Physical therapy starts the same way it always does. Shoulder rolled slowly until the joint warms enough to stop protesting every movement.
I focus on my breathing instead; in through my nose, out through my mouth, slow enough that my body remembers I’m not on a call, not racing a clock.
“Let’s see that external rotation again,” my therapist says.
I pull. Hold. Release.
The burn blooms and fades. Not pain exactly, more like resistance. My shoulder doesn’t want to move forward yet. It wants more time.
She watches closely, eyes sharp, the way mine get when I’m assessing a scene.
“That’s better,” she says, making a note. “You’ve built back a lot of stability.”
I nod, jaw tight, waiting.
“If things keep progressing like this, we’re looking at three to four weeks before we clear you for return to duty.”
The words land heavy and light all at once.
Three to four weeks. Close enough to taste. Far enough to still feel unreal.
I thank her, finish my set, and ice the joint like I’m told. I don’t mention the way my breath catches at the idea of going back, or the way another part of me wonders what happens if I don’t.
Firehouse 99 hums the moment I step inside. Familiar noise, coffee brewing, someone laughing too loud, and a radio crackling in the background. My body relaxes before my brain can catch up.
Grayson Cole looks up from his desk when he sees me.
“Daniels,” he says. “You checking in or just missing us?”
“Bit of both,” I say.
“How’s the shoulder?”
“Better. PT thinks I’m close.”
He raises a brow and I know he’s wondering if I’m telling the truth. “Don’t rush it.”
“I won’t.”
I mean it…I think.
I’m heading toward the back when someone calls my name.
“Stellan, you look like shit.”
I grin before I even turn. Jake Lawson stands by the counter; paramedic uniform, coffee in hand, hair still damp.
“Nice to see you too,” I say. “Thought you were nights.”
“Picked up a shift,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”
We lean against the counter and fall into the easy familiarity. He tells me about a call that went sideways. I tell him about PT. He asks how I’m filling my time now that I’m not crawling through burning buildings.
“I’m tutoring,” I say.
He blinks. “You’re what?”
“Tutoring,” I repeat. “Kids. Mostly one.”
Jake laughs, full and surprised. “That’s a hell of a pivot.”
“It’s good,” I say because it’s true. “There’s this little girl. She’s four. Smart as hell and observant as all get out, but she doesn’t speak.”
His smile softens. “Why not?”
“Her dad died in a fire,” I say. “Line of duty.”
Jake exhales slowly. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”
“It hits close,” I admit.
He nods, understanding without needing anything else. That’s why he’s always been one of my people.
I check the time and feel that familiar pull, the one that’s been showing up more often lately.
“I gotta go,” I say. “Session tonight.”
“Don’t be late,” he says. “Kids remember shit like that.”
The drive across the city is quiet. I keep the radio off, letting my thoughts loop and untangle on their own. Alaska, their apartment, Hartley standing in the kitchen pretending not to watch us.
I knock at five on the dot and Hartley opens the door looking as good as ever.
Alaska is already at the table, picture cards laid out. Hartley opens the door and lets me in before heading to the kitchen to stand by the counter, scrolling on his phone.
I set down a laminated sheet with pictures on it. Dog. Ball. Sun. Tree. I slide wooden letters next to it, chunky enough to grip easily, the kind kids like because they feel solid.
“Hope you don’t mind, Alaska. I brought something else for us to try tonight.”
She looks at the blocks and pictures before looking back at me with a wide grin on her face and nods.
“Perfect. So we’re gonna match,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “You tell me where they belong.”
I tap the picture of the dog. “D.”
She doesn’t reach for the letter right away. She tilts her head, studying it like she’s deciding, then she picks up the D and sets it down next to the picture, careful, precise.
“Good,” I say. “Now listen.”
I exaggerate the sound just enough. “Duh.”
Her mouth moves slightly. Not sound, just shape.
I don’t comment on it.
We move on. Ball. B. Sun. S. Each time she takes a beat longer than the last, thinking it through, fingers tapping lightly on the table while she decides. When she gets one wrong, she doesn’t look embarrassed. She just fixes it, and pushes the letter into place like it belongs there now.
Hartley hovers near the counter, pretending to reorganize a drawer I’m pretty sure he already organized last week.
I slide one last picture forward.
It’s a simple drawing of a man in a helmet with a big smile wearing turnout gear.
Firefighter.
Alaska goes still.
She stares at it longer than any of the others. Her fingers curl around the letter in front of her, then stop.
I don’t rush her. I don’t fill the silence.
She lifts her head and looks past me.
“Da,” she says, soft and quick, like she’s testing the sound more than offering it.
Hartley’s breath catches behind me.
She points to a picture on the wall, then back to the one on the table.
Hartley sinks into the chair beside her. His eyes shine. “Yeah sweet girl, that’s your dad. He was a firefighter.”
Alaska reaches up and pats his cheek, gently, then slides off the chair and pads down the hall.
“She hasn’t said anything like that,” Hartley says quietly. “Not since.”
“She chose it,” I say.
He nods, swallowing hard, scrubs a hand over his face, then drops it to his lap. His fingers curl and uncurl like they don’t know what to do with themselves.
“She used to talk nonstop,” he says. “Full sentences before she was two. She wouldn’t shut up, honestly.” A breathy laugh escapes him and dies just as fast. “After the fire, it was like she packed it all away and locked it up.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s gone,” I say.
“I know.” He nods again, slower this time. “Intellectually, I know. But some days it feels like I’m waiting for something I don’t get to ask for.”
“Lance used to fill the whole house,” Hartley says quietly. “If he was awake, you knew it. Music, talking, pacing, laughing at his own jokes.”
“He sounds like he was a lot, but in the best way,” I say.
“He was,” Hartley says, a smile tugging at his mouth despite everything. “Too loud. Too tall. Took up every room like he paid rent there.” He glances at the picture on the wall. “Always smelled like smoke. Even after showers. Drove me insane.”
“Did it scare you?” I ask gently.
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens. “Every day. I’d check my phone whenever sirens went by, and pretend I wasn’t doing it.” He exhales through his nose. “I still didn’t think it would happen. Not to him.”
I nod, because I know that feeling. Because everyone does, until they don’t.
“I never wanted Alaska to grow up with that fear,” he says. “The waiting. The not knowing. And now it’s all I do.”
Silence stretches. Not awkward. Just full.
Hartley leans forward, forearms braced on the table where Alaska’s papers still sit. I mirror him without realizing it, the distance shrinking until we’re close enough to feel each other’s breath. His shoulders stiffen, then relax, like he’s bracing for something and deciding not to stop it.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says quietly. “For her.”
“You’re not,” I say. “You’re doing everything right.”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say. “I see it.”
Our eyes meet and don’t break right away. Something shifts, subtle but unmistakable. I lean in without deciding to. He does too. It’s slow, unplanned, like gravity finally winning an argument.
“I can’t do this,” he says suddenly, breaking whatever almost formed between us. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
I hold still, and force myself not to reach for him. “Okay,” I say. “I get it.”
He nods, breathing hard, and I take that as my cue to go. Packing up, I grab my jacket and move toward the door. He doesn’t stop me. I don’t ask him to.