Chapter 2
Cal
TAKE CARE OF LUCY. PROMISE ME.
Mateo's last words. The ones he'd choked out with blood on his lips and a ceiling collapsed across his chest, his eyes already knowing what I couldn't accept. I'd heard them in the warehouse three years ago, smoke so thick I could barely see his face. I'd heard them every day since.
Some mornings they were the first thing in my head, before my own name, before the day of the week. Like my mind had been replaying them while I slept, making sure I never forgot the promise I'd made to my best friend while he died in my arms.
The firehouse was quiet at 6 AM, that stillness before a 24-hour shift when everything felt suspended.
I stood in the apparatus bay running through equipment checks, hands moving with mechanical precision while my mind stayed somewhere else entirely.
Flashlight. Radio. Halligan bar. Thermal imaging camera.
Four years as captain. Respected. Steady. The guy who never lost his cool on a scene, who always knew what to do, who brought his crew home safe.
Except once.
I checked the air pack straps, tested the regulator, logged everything on the clipboard. Around me, the engine gleamed red and ready, the ladder truck waiting in its bay, the rescue rig stocked and organized. Everything in its place. Everything accounted for.
If only the rest of my life worked that way.
The bay doors were open to the September morning, mountains visible in the distance, the sky that shade of blue that only existed in Colorado. Mateo used to say the sky here was showing off. Used to say God was just rubbing it in for everyone stuck in flat states.
I pushed the thought down and moved to the next rig.
"You look like hell, Cap."
Liam's voice echoed across the bay, cheerful and needling in equal measure.
I looked up to find him leaning against the engine, coffee in hand, that easy grin already in place.
Liam Murphy, my second-in-command, the guy who could defuse a tense scene with a joke and then turn around and drag a two-hundred-pound victim down four flights of stairs without breaking a sweat.
He was also the guy who noticed everything, which made him invaluable on calls and exhausting the rest of the time.
"Good morning to you too," I said.
"Didn't say good morning. Said you look like hell." He took a long sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. "You sleeping?"
"I'm fine."
"Uh-huh." He didn't sound convinced. "That's the third time you've checked that regulator."
I looked down at my hands. He was right. I set the clipboard aside.
"Long night," I said. "Neighbors were loud."
It wasn't entirely a lie. I had heard noise from across the hall last night. Not loud noise. The opposite, actually. The kind of quiet sounds that carried through thin walls when someone was trying not to be heard.
Liam opened his mouth to push further, but Owen appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag.
Owen Mitchell, the quietest member of the crew, the one who fixed things instead of talking about them.
He'd been with me almost as long as Mateo had, and he had the same way of noticing too much without ever saying it directly.
"Coffee's fresh," Owen said. Then, to me: "You eat yet?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
"Leave him alone." Riley's voice cut in from behind me, sharp and impatient.
I turned to find our newest probie crossing the bay, her bunker gear already half-on, her expression the particular mix of fierce and exhausted that she always wore.
Riley Santos, five-foot-four, looked like a strong wind could knock her over, and had once single-handedly dragged a grown man out of a second-story window.
"He said he's fine. He's fine. Can we stop hovering? "
"We're not hovering," Liam said. "We're expressing concern. There's a difference."
"There's really not."
Owen made a sound that might have been a laugh. Liam clutched his chest in mock offense. Riley ignored them both and started her own equipment check, movements quick and efficient.
This was my crew. My family, in all the ways that mattered.
We'd bled together, grieved together, carried each other through the worst nights of our lives.
Liam with his jokes that hid a sharper mind than anyone gave him credit for.
Owen with his quiet steadiness, the guy you wanted next to you when everything went sideways.
Riley with her chip on her shoulder and her refusal to let anyone see her struggle, even though I knew she went home every night to a twelve-year-old sister she was raising alone.
And there was an absence in the middle of us. A space where someone should be standing, joining in the banter, making everyone laugh. We'd closed ranks around the gap, the way you do when you lose someone, but we'd never really filled it.
Mateo's name wasn't spoken. It almost never was. But I felt it anyway, the way I always did.
I glanced toward the memorial wall without meaning to.
The brass plaques mounted there, names of everyone we'd lost over the years.
Mateo's was the newest, though three years had taken some of the shine off.
Mateo Reyes. His dates. The words "Gone but not forgotten" underneath, which had always seemed inadequate to me. Like a bumper sticker for grief.
I looked away before anyone noticed.
"Alright," I said, and my voice came out steady, the captain voice, the one that didn't betray anything. "Shift meeting in ten. Murphy, you're on breakfast. Try not to poison us this time."
"One time," Liam protested. "I undercooked the eggs one time."
"We had three guys out sick."
"Correlation is not causation."
"Tell that to their stomachs."
The normalcy of it settled over me like armor. This I could do. The routine, the banter, the rhythm of shift life. As long as I kept moving, kept busy, kept my hands and my mind occupied, the clock in my head faded to background noise.
Most of the time.
The tones dropped at 11:47 AM.
That sound never got easier, no matter how many years you'd been doing this.
The alert cutting through whatever you were doing, your body responding before your brain caught up.
I was out of my chair and moving before the dispatcher finished the address, feet finding the floor of the engine bay, hands reaching for my gear.
"Structure fire, 2847 Industrial Road. Warehouse district. Multiple calls reporting flames visible."
Warehouse.
The word hit me like a fist to the chest, but I didn't let it show. Couldn't let it show. I was already stepping into my boots, pulling up my bunker pants, shrugging into my coat. Around me, my crew moved in perfect sync, a choreography we'd practiced a thousand times.
"Engine 7, Ladder 7, Rescue 7, responding," I called into the radio, and my voice didn't shake.
The engine roared to life. I took my seat, ran through the mental checklist, forced my breathing to stay even. It was just a call. Just another call. Warehouses burned all the time. This one had nothing to do with that one, three years and two months and six days ago.
We pulled out of the station, sirens wailing, and I watched the streets blur past and told myself I was fine.
The warehouse came into view two minutes later.
Old brick building, three stories, flames already licking out of the second-floor windows.
Smoke pouring from the roof in thick black columns.
I sized it up automatically: construction type, access points, exposure risks.
The training taking over, the part of my brain that knew how to do this without feeling anything.
Then the wind shifted, and the smell hit me.
Burning plastic. Hot metal. That acrid combination that meant an industrial fire, the kind with chemicals and accelerants and a hundred ways to kill you that you couldn't see coming.
For half a second, I wasn't here. I was back at the Morrison warehouse, three years ago, smoke so thick I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.
I was pulling the kid out first because that was the job, that was always the job, get the civilians clear before anything else.
I was going back in for Mateo because he'd radioed that he was trapped, that the east wall was coming down, that he needed help.
I was finding him in the rubble. I was watching his eyes, the way he looked at me, the way he already knew.
Take care of Lucy. His voice, barely a whisper, blood on his lips. Promise me.
"Cap?"
Liam's voice snapped me back. I blinked. The warehouse in front of me was not the Morrison warehouse. Different building. Different fire. Different day.
My crew was looking at me, waiting for orders.
"Defensive attack," I said, and my voice came out calm and steady, like it was supposed to.
"This thing's too far gone for interior.
Murphy, get me a water supply established.
Mitchell, ladder to the roof for ventilation.
Santos, check the exposures—clear the B and D sides, make sure nobody's trapped in the adjacent structures. "
They moved. I moved with them.
The fire was hungry, eating through the building faster than we could knock it down. But we contained it, kept it from spreading to the buildings on either side, held the line until the flames exhausted themselves.
No victims. No casualties. No one inside when it started, according to the owner who showed up looking shell-shocked and kept saying something about faulty wiring.
A win, by any reasonable measure.
So why did my hands shake when I pulled off my gloves?
Back at the station, the adrenaline faded and left something heavier in its place.
The crew moved through the post-call routine. Cleaning gear. Restocking the rigs. The debrief that was mostly just confirming what we already knew: good stop, no injuries, building was a loss but nothing we could have done about that.
I said the right things. Gave the right feedback. Told Riley her perimeter check was textbook, told Owen his ladder work was solid, told Liam his water supply setup had bought us the time we needed.
Then I walked away, and I found myself standing in front of the memorial wall.
Mateo's plaque was at eye level, right in the center. I'd been there when they'd mounted it, three years ago. Had stood in my dress uniform and accepted the flag and said things I didn't remember anymore, words that had felt like ash in my mouth.
I stared at his name, the letters that didn't come close to capturing who he'd been.
Mateo, who could make anyone laugh. Mateo, who remembered everyone's birthday and never let you pay for drinks and believed, genuinely believed, that people were mostly good.
Mateo, who had run into that warehouse without hesitating because there was a kid inside and that was all he needed to know.
My fingers lifted. Hovered over the engraving. Didn't quite touch.
"Hey."
I dropped my hand.
Riley stood a few feet behind me, her expression unreadable. She'd showered and changed, her dark hair still damp, and she looked even younger out of her gear. Twenty-six years old and carrying more weight than anyone should have to.
"You okay?" she asked. Not pushy. Just direct.
"I'm fine."
"You froze. At the scene. Just for a second, but I saw it."
Of course she had. Riley saw everything. It was what made her a good firefighter and an uncomfortable person to be around.
"It was nothing," I said. "Smell got to me for a second. Happens sometimes."
She studied me for a long moment. I couldn't tell if she believed me or not.
"Okay," she finally said. "But if it's not nothing, you know where to find me."
She walked away without waiting for a response. I watched her go, then turned back to the plaque.
Take care of Lucy. Promise me.
I'd promised. And for three years, I'd been trying to figure out what that meant.
My shift ended at 5 AM the next morning. I drove home on autopilot, the streets of West Valley Springs quiet and familiar, the mountains pink with sunrise.
Home was the apartment on Oak Street. Second floor, across the hall from the woman I'd been watching over for six months without ever saying more than ten words to her.
I'd moved in two weeks after Lucy came back to town. I knew how it would look if she ever found out—a man tracking her movements, watching her without permission, inserting himself into her life uninvited.
I'd been living in a house on the other side of town, the one I'd bought when I made captain, too big for one person but I'd never gotten around to finding somewhere smaller.
Then I'd heard through the grapevine that Lucy Moreno was back in West Valley Springs, using her mother's maiden name, working at the café on Main Street.
I'd told myself I was just going to check on her. Make sure she was okay. Keep the promise from a distance.
Then I saw the apartment listing. Same building. Same floor.
I knew it was wrong. Knew Mateo would probably tell me I'd lost my mind. But the alternative—doing nothing, staying away, pretending I hadn't promised—felt worse. So I signed the lease and told myself this was protection.
Stay close enough to help if she needed it. Far enough that she'd never have to know.
I climbed the stairs now, my body heavy with the exhaustion that came after a 24-hour shift.
Her door was closed. But I could see light through the crack at the bottom, pale yellow spilling into the dim hallway. She was awake. At 6 in the morning, she was awake.
I stopped outside my own door, keys in hand.
I should check on her. Just knock. Just ask if she's okay. That's what Mateo would have wanted. That's what the promise meant.
But what would I say?
I moved into this building because of you. Because Mateo asked me to watch over you with his dying breath. Because I couldn't save him, so saving you is all I have left.
Because when I close my eyes, I still see his face. And I don't know if looking at you makes it better or worse, but I can't seem to stay away.
My hand lifted toward her door.
And stopped.
I couldn't do it. Couldn't knock. Couldn't face her, with all of our history and grief and silence between us. I couldn't stand there and pretend I was just a neighbor checking in, when we both knew I was the man who'd let her fiancé die.
I unlocked my own door, stepped inside, and let the darkness swallow me.
Through the thin walls, I heard her crying. Soft, muffled, like she was trying to hide it from the world.
I stood in my kitchen and listened, but I didn't go to her.
Because I wasn't what she needed. I was just the man who'd failed to bring Mateo home.