Chapter 8 #3
Captain Torres appears, shaking June's hand with genuine warmth. "Ms. Callahan, we've heard a lot about you. Thank you for supporting our event."
"It's my pleasure, Captain. Community events like this matter." She's professional, poised—exactly the kind of person who builds a successful business from nothing. "And please, call me June."
"Only if you call me David." Torres grins, then leans in conspiratorially. "Fair warning, this crew's going to adopt you immediately. There's no escape now."
June laughs, glancing at me. "I think I'm okay with that."
The morning unfolds in organized chaos—families arriving, kids swarming the trucks with wide eyes and endless questions. Emma appoints herself June's shadow, dragging her from station to station, explaining everything with six-year-old authority.
I keep catching myself watching them. June crouching down to a shy kid's level, making him laugh. June helping a little girl try on a helmet three sizes too big. June taking photos for families, chatting with parents, fitting into this world like she's always belonged here.
Kowalski appears at my elbow. "She's good with the kids."
"Yeah." My voice comes out rougher than expected.
"You're in deep, man."
I don't deny it. Can't. Not when watching June with Emma makes me think about forever in a way I haven't since the divorce shattered that dream.
"Yeah," I say again. "I am."
And later today, I'm going to tell her about Sarah. The custody threat. All the messy complications that come with loving me.
And pray she still wants this—wants us—when she knows the whole truth.
***
Around eleven, there's a lull. Most of the families are outside watching the ladder truck demonstration, kids shrieking with excitement as Jenkins extends it to full height. Emma's glued to the front row with a group of other children, completely absorbed.
It's the first moment June and I have been alone all morning.
"Want the official tour?" I ask, nodding toward the interior of the station. "The non-public version?"
Her smile is immediate, warm. "I'd love that."
I lead her through the bay—explaining the trucks, the equipment, the organized disorder of our gear room. She asks genuine questions, her fingers trailing over the lockers marked with our names.
"This is yours," she says, stopping at mine. Lane stenciled across the metal door.
"Yeah. Spare gear, protein bars, pictures of Emma."
She glances at me, something soft in her expression. "Can I see?"
I open it. Extra gloves, a protein bar stash that would embarrass me if I thought about it too long, and taped to the door—a photo of Emma from her first day of school. Massive smile, pigtails slightly crooked, holding a sign Harper made.
June touches the photo gently. "She's beautiful."
"She's everything."
We move through the kitchen—where the crew spends downtime between calls—and into the bunk room. Narrow beds lined up, each with a footlocker, the space sparse and functional.
"This is where you sleep?" June pauses at my assigned bunk. "On overnight shifts?"
"Yeah. When we're not running calls." I lean against the doorframe, watching her take it in. "Harper stays with Emma those nights, luckily it's not often."
June turns to face me, expression serious. "Do you worry? When you're here and she's at home?"
"Every single time I leave for a shift." The admission comes easier than I expected. "Every call could be the one that goes wrong. That's the job. And Emma—she's already lost so much stability. I can't stand the thought of—"
I stop, throat tight.
June crosses the space between us, her hands coming up to frame my face. "You're a really good dad, Adam."
The sincerity in her voice, the way she's looking at me like I'm something worth keeping—it undoes every carefully constructed wall I've built.
We're alone. The bunk room is private, door half-closed. The sounds of the event outside feel distant, muffled.
I step closer, backing her gently against the bunk. "June—"
"Kiss me," she whispers.
I do. Thoroughly. One hand cupping her face, the other sliding to her waist, pulling her against me.
The kiss is hungry, days of tension and unspoken words pouring into it.
June's hands fist in my shirt, tugging me closer, and I'm lost in the taste of her, the soft sound she makes when I deepen the kiss.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against hers, trying to remember why we can't just stay like this.
Then I remember. Sarah. The threat. The truth June deserves to know.
"I need to tell you something," I say quietly.
"Okay." Her hands are still on my chest, fingers tracing absent patterns. Not pulling away. Not putting distance between us.
I take a breath. This is it. The moment I either lose her or prove Torres right—that she's strong enough to handle this.
"Sarah called Wednesday." The words feel heavy, dangerous. "She knows about you. About us."
June goes still—but she doesn't pull away. "How?"
"Tyler." The name tastes bitter. "They went to college together. He reached out to her, told her I was dating someone. That I'd introduced you to Emma."
"What's wrong with that?" She asks tentatively. Anger simmering beneath the surface.
"She thinks it's too soon. That Emma's been through enough upheaval." I force myself to meet June's eyes, to let her see how much this is costing me. "She threatened to petition for an emergency custody review. Said if she felt Emma's environment was unstable, she could challenge our arrangement."
June's quiet for a long moment. I watch emotions flicker across her face—surprise, anger, something that might be fear.
"Does she have grounds?" Her voice is steady, calmer than I expected. "For a custody challenge?"
"No." I say it firmly, needing her to believe it. "Emma's happy and doing well. Sarah only sees her when it's convenient—she has no case. But she has resources, and she could make things unnecessarily difficult and messy."
June's hands are still on my chest. I'm terrified she's about to pull away. To tell me this is too much, too complicated, that she didn't sign up for custody battles and vengeful ex-wives.
"I understand if this changes things," I say, the words scraping out. "If you want to step back, protect yourself from—"
"So she doesn't have grounds?" June interrupts, steel in her voice now.
"No. But—"
"Then let her try." Her eyes blaze, fierce and certain. "I'm not going anywhere, Adam. Unless you want me to."
Relief floods through me so fast it's dizzying. "I definitely don't want you to."
"Then we handle whatever comes. Together."
That word—together—loosens something deep in my chest. The fear that's been choking me since Sarah's call loosens, just slightly.
"You're sure?" I need to hear it again. "This could get ugly. Sarah knows how to twist things, make trouble. And June—I can't ask you to—"
She kisses me. Cuts off my spiral with her mouth on mine, soft and certain and everything I needed.
When she pulls back, her expression is fierce. "Stop trying to protect me from this. I know what I'm choosing." She holds my gaze. "I'm choosing you. Both of you. I just wish you’d told me sooner, instead of carrying this alone for days."
I pull her close, burying my face in her hair, breathing in vanilla and sugar and something that feels dangerously like hope.
"Thank you," I whisper against her temple.
"For what?"
"For not running. For staying. For being exactly who you are."
Her arms tighten around me. "Always."
We stay like that for another moment—her in my arms, the world narrowed down to just us—before reality intrudes in the form of the alarm.
The sharp blare cuts through the station, followed immediately by the dispatcher's voice over the intercom: "Engine 2, medical emergency, corner of Oak and Third. Elderly male, possible cardiac event. Repeat, Engine 2—"
My body responds before my brain catches up. I'm already pulling away from June, already moving toward the door.
"I have to go."
"I know." She steps back, letting me pass. "Go."
I'm halfway to the bay when I turn back. She's standing in the doorway of the bunk room, arms wrapped around herself, and something about the image makes my chest constrict.
"Stay with Emma?"
"Of course." Her smile is soft, certain. "We'll be here when you get back."
I nod and run.
The bay is controlled chaos—Kowalski already sliding down the pole, Jenkins hauling on his turnout gear, Torres barking orders. I'm suited up in under a minute, helmet secured, gloves on, climbing into the truck as the engine roars to life.
We pull out, sirens wailing, and through the bay doors I catch a glimpse of June. She's moved outside with the crowd, Emma tucked against her side, both of them waving.
The image burns into my brain. My daughter and the woman I'm falling for, standing together, waiting for me to return.
The call is straightforward—elderly man, seventy-three, clutching his chest in his front yard while his wife hovers, terrified. We work fast—oxygen, vitals, EKG showing signs of cardiac distress. The ambulance arrives within minutes, paramedics taking over, and we assist with the transfer.
He's stable when they load him. Conscious, talking, good odds if they get him to the hospital in time.
We're back at the station thirty minutes after we left. The event's still going—families milling around, kids climbing on the trucks under supervision.
And there, sitting on the bench near the bay entrance, is June.
Emma's asleep in her lap, Mr. Fluffkins clutched in one small fist. June's stroking Emma's hair absently, looking down at my daughter with such tenderness it stops me in my tracks.
Kowalski appears at my shoulder, following my gaze. "That's a keeper, Lane."
"I know."
"Don't screw it up."
"I don't intend to."
June looks up, catches me watching, and smiles. The relief in her expression is unmistakable—she was worried. Actually worried. Not annoyed at the interruption or frustrated by the unpredictability of my job. Just worried about me coming back safe.