Chapter 6 #2
"Thank you for that wisdom. Very profound.” My voice stayed flat.
“I’m a profound guy. Ask anyone.” He shrugged, like it was an established fact.
I didn't answer. Just moved on to the next piece of equipment, checking connections I'd already checked, testing pressure I'd already tested. Busywork. The kind of thing you did when you needed your hands to move so your mind could stay still.
Liam didn't leave. I could feel him observing me, wrapped in that patient silence he was so good at. Most people couldn't outlast it. They'd start talking just to fill the void, confessing things they'd never meant to say.
I'd known him too long to fall for it. But that didn't mean it wasn't working.
Owen walked in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a rag.
He had grease on his forearm, probably from the project he'd been working on all week, some carburetor he'd found at a swap meet that he was convinced he could restore. Owen was always fixing things: engines, appliances, even relationships. He couldn’t stand the idea of something broken without trying to make it whole.
"Hey, Cal." He tossed the rag over his shoulder. "Some of us are grabbing beers after shift. That place on Fifth with the good wings. You in?"
Normally, I'd say yes. Beers with the crew were a tradition, one of those unwritten rules that held the station together.
You showed up. You unwound. You told stories that got more exaggerated with every retelling and laughed at jokes that weren't that funny and pretended for a few hours that the job didn't weigh as much as it did.
I'd been saying yes for fifteen years. Through good shifts and bad shifts, through breakups and funerals, through nights when the last thing I wanted was to be around people and I showed up anyway because that was what you did. That was what families did.
"Can't tonight," I said. "I have to get home."
The word landed differently. Home. I'd said it a thousand times before, but it had never sounded like that. Never carried that particular weight and that particular warmth. Like home was something more than an apartment I slept in. Like home was something I was actually looking forward to.
Owen and Liam exchanged a look. The one who said they'd noticed something different. The kind of look that said they'd be comparing notes later, piecing together the puzzle of why their captain was suddenly turning down beer and rushing back to his apartment.
"Hot date?" The words were easy, effortless. Too casual. Way too casual.
"Just tired.", I said quickly before he could press.
"Uh-huh." He drew the word out, loaded it with skepticism. "You've worked back-to-back shifts for three years without getting tired. But sure. Tired."
"People change." The words came out clipped, final.
"People do." He tilted his head, studying me. "Question is, what changed?"
I didn't answer because I didn't know how to explain.
How was I supposed to say that my apartment didn't feel empty anymore?
That I'd started looking forward to the end of my shifts in a way I never had before?
That there was a woman living in my guest room who made dinner and laughed at my stories and sometimes looked at me like I was someone worth looking at.
Riley walked past, caught the tail end of the conversation, and raised an eyebrow.
She slowed down just long enough to take in the scene, me surrounded by equipment I didn't need to check, Liam and Owen wearing matching expressions of barely concealed curiosity, and then kept walking without comment.
Small mercies.
I thought.
"Rain check," I said to Owen. "Next week. I promise."
He nodded, but his expression gave him away. He didn’t believe me. Neither did Liam. They’d known me too long, worked beside me through too much. They could tell when something had shifted, even if they couldn’t say what.
"Sure, Cap." Owen's voice was easy, unchallenging. That was Owen. He'd give you space even when he was curious. Even when he knew you weren't telling him everything. "Next week."
They walked away together, laughter trailing behind them. Probably about me. Liam was already piecing things together, trying to make sense of the shift he’d noticed.
The station kitchen was empty at 2 AM. It was just me and the coffee maker and the low hum of the fluorescent lights.
I sat at the table with an untouched mug, staring at the duty roster on the wall. Twenty-four names.. Twenty-four people who counted on me to keep my head straight, to make the right calls and to bring them home safe.
I'd been doing this job for fifteen years. Never let anything distract me. Never let anything get between me and the work.
Until this.
This is about the promise, I told myself. About Mateo. About duty. She's in danger, and I'm protecting her, and that's all this is.
But the truth kept bleeding through the cracks in that story.
I wasn't checking on her out of obligation anymore. I was coming home because I wanted to see her. I was making her coffee because I liked the way she smiled when I got it right. I was telling her stories because her laugh had become the best part of my day.
I was already falling.
This was dangerous. This was exactly what I swore I wouldn't let happen. When I moved into that building, I had rules. Keep my distance. Watch over her from a safe distance. Make sure she was safe without ever letting her know I was paying attention.
Those rules were gone now. Shattered the moment she knocked on my door, the moment I carried her into my apartment, the moment I sat on the floor beside my bed and watched her sleep.
I thought about Mateo. Tried to imagine what he'd say if he could see me now. If he could see me counting down the hours until my shift ended so I could go home to his fiancée. If he could see me memorizing the way she laughed.
Take care of Lucy. Promise me.
Was this what he'd meant? Was this taking care of her?
Or was this something else entirely? Something that would make him hate me if he knew?
I didn't have an answer. Didn't know if there was one.
I just knew I couldn't stop.
I got home from shift at seven, the evening light turning the mountains gold and pink outside the windows. I could smell dinner before I even opened the door. Something with garlic and tomatoes, the kind of meal that made a house feel like a home.
Lucy was at the stove, her back to me, stirring something in a pot. She was humming.
That song again. The one I couldn't place, the melody that had been nagging at me all week.
And then, standing in the doorway with my keys still in my hand, it hit me.
Sunday mornings. The firehouse kitchen. Mateo was at the stove making pancakes for the crew, flour on his shirt and a spatula in his hand, humming that exact melody while he flipped and poured and made everyone laugh.
He'd learned it from his grandmother, he'd told me once. Some old song she used to sing while she was cooking. He’d hummed it every Sunday for three years, and I hadn’t heard it since the day he died.
Until that evening.
Lucy turned and saw me standing there. The humming stopped. Her expression shifted, concern replacing contentment.
"Cal? What's wrong?" There was worry in her voice.
You carry pieces of him you don't even know about. You hum his grandmother's song, the one he hummed every Sunday, the one you must have heard so many times it seeped into you without your knowing. And I can't tell you. It would break us both.
"Nothing." My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat. "Smells good."
She studied my face for a moment longer, not quite believing me. But she let it go, the way we'd both learned to let things go this week. The unspoken agreement that some questions were too heavy to ask.
"It's my mom's marinara," She shrugged, almost apologetic. "Figured I should earn my keep somehow."
"You don't have to earn anything."
The words came out softer than I'd intended. She looked at me, something flickering in her expression, and then she smiled.
Not the broken smile I’d seen that first night, trying to pretend everything was fine. Not the polite smile she gave customers at the café, just for sales. A real smile: warm and unguarded, the kind that reached her eyes and transformed her whole face.
She smiled at me like I'd given her something precious.
And I thought: this is how it happens.
This is how you betray your best friend.
One smile at a time, one meal at a time, until you've stolen the life he should have had.