Chapter 4
FOUR
brENDON
I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
I lay on my childhood bed at my mom’s house, staring at the ceiling I’d memorized years ago, replaying the sound of Abby’s breath hitching when I kissed her.
The way she pulled back like she’d touched something hot.
The look in her eyes when Daisy hugged me goodbye—fear mixed with longing.
I told myself that leaving her kitchen was the right thing to do.
I tell myself a lot of things.
Aaron is already there when I walk into the bay, clipboard in hand, coffee balanced dangerously close to the edge of the desk.
“You look like hell,” he says pleasantly.
“Morning to you too,” I reply, grabbing a mug.
He watches me pour coffee I don’t need. “You okay?”
I nod automatically. “Fine.”
“You saved a kid yesterday.” Aaron snorts. “Then you vanished like a ghost. No one who’s fine does that.”
I don’t answer. There’s no version of the truth that fits easily into conversation before eight a.m.
Justin strolls in next, tugging on his gloves. “Hey, hero,” he says. “Word travels fast in a town this size.”
I stiffen slightly. “It was my job.”
“It was your volunteer job,” Kendrick adds, joining us. “Don’t deflect.”
I stare into my coffee like it might have some tips for me It doesn’t.
“Actually, speaking of yesterday…” Aaron clears his throat. “The school called first thing this morning.”
That gets my attention.
“The elementary school?” I ask.
“Yep,” he says. “Principal wants someone to do a fire safety refresher. Kids are rattled after the neighborhood fire.”
I think of Daisy sitting on the ambulance bumper, legs swinging, talking like the world was still fundamentally good even after having her life threatened in such a terrifying way.
“I’ll do it,” I say immediately.
Aaron lifts an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Justin smirks. “He didn’t even hesitate.”
I ignore him.
Aaron studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. It’s tomorrow morning. You’ll coordinate with the room parents. Apparently one of them is… invested.”
My stomach tightens.
“Who?” I ask, already knowing.
Aaron checks his clipboard. “Abby C—”
“—I know,” I cut in.
The room goes quiet.
Kendrick’s gaze flicks between us. “You know?”
I take a slow breath. “Her daughter was the kid I pulled out yesterday.”
Understanding clicks into place.
“Oh,” Justin says softly. “Oh.”
Aaron’s expression shifts. It’s not judgment, not concern. Just the kind of awareness that comes from living in a town where lives overlap whether you want them to or not.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says carefully.
“Yes,” I reply. “I do.”
Because here’s the thing I don’t say out loud:
If I don’t show up for this, I will never forgive myself.
The elementary school reminds me of my own childhood in a way I don’t have time to unpack.
Kids line the hallways with backpacks too big for their bodies, eyes wide when they see the fire engine parked out front. Teachers herd them like professional cat wranglers.
I adjust my jacket, suddenly hyper-aware of the uniform. Of what it represents. Of who might be watching.
And then I see her.
Abby stands near the doorway of Daisy’s classroom, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back in a way that makes her look efficient and untouchable. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that hugs her just enough to be distracting, boots dusted with snow.
She looks composed. But she does not look fine.
Our eyes meet.
The air snaps tight between us.
For a split second, neither of us moves. Then Daisy sees me.
“Brendon!” she calls, launching herself out of line with complete disregard for rules or gravity.
Abby’s breath catches. I see it happen. The instinctive fear. The calculation.
But Daisy is already there, arms around my waist, squeezing like she’s making sure I’m real.
I freeze for half a second.
Then I bend down and hug her back, careful and solid, the way I wish someone had held me when I was her age.
“Hey, kiddo,” I murmur. “You ready to learn how to be safe if you ever come across another fire?”
She giggles. “Yes!”
Abby steps closer, her voice low. “Thank you for doing this.”
“Of course,” I reply. “I said I’d think about it.”
She studies my face, like she’s looking for something — regret, maybe, or reassurance.
She finds neither.
Her jaw tightens slightly. “Okay. Let’s get started.”
The classroom is chaos in the way only a room full of eight-year-olds can be.
Still, I somehow manage to talk them through fire alarms, stop-drop-and-roll, crawling low under smoke.
I demonstrate my gear. I let them touch the helmet, ask questions, laugh when they ask if fires can smell fear.
Daisy watches me like I’m performing Shakespeare on Broadway.
Abby watches me like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
At one point, we demonstrate checking a door for heat, and Abby steps forward to help. Our shoulders brush. Her breath stutters, barely audible.
“You don’t have to be so close,” she murmurs.
I glance down at her, just as quiet. “You volunteered.”
Her lips press together. “I didn’t know it came with such close proximity.”
The word does things to me it shouldn’t.
“Still okay?” I ask.
She nods. “I’m fine.”
She is not fine.
Neither am I.
Daisy waits until the room starts to empty. She proudly hands me a notebook, beaming.
“Guess what?”
“What’s that, pumpkin?” I ask, kneeling to her eye-level and wincing at my words.
Her mama’s not going to appreciate that endearment I threw in at the end. But I couldn’t help myself.
“This is my hero project,” she says. “I’m writing about you.”
She plops onto the stool and opens the folder with dramatic flair, pulling out a page of messy handwriting and a drawing of a stick figure firefighter with flames everywhere and a little girl with a daisy on her head.
“This is you,” she tells me proudly. “And this is me. And this is Mom, but I didn’t have time to draw her hair right.”
I lean closer, my gut clenching. “It’s perfect.”
Daisy glows. “I wrote that you’re brave and you saved me and you made me not scared.”
My throat tightens. I look away quickly, and clear my throat before emotion can get the better of me.
Daisy continues, reading her sentences aloud. Some are misspelled. Some are missing punctuation. Every single one is sincere enough to split my heart open.
My chest tightens in a way that scares me.
Abby notices. I see her swallow, see the wall go up.
And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that showing up is the easy part.
Staying is going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Kids are being herded back into line. Teachers murmur thank-yous. Someone knocks over a chair and apologizes too loudly. Abby is busy collecting permission slips and half-folded papers, her focus deliberately elsewhere.
Daisy tugs on my sleeve.
“Brendon?”
I glance down. “Yeah, kiddo?”
She holds up her notebook, fingers smudged with pencil graphite. “I have one more question for my project.”
“Okay,” I say, dropping into a crouch so we’re eye level. “Hit me.”
She lowers her voice, like this is serious business. “Heroes don’t just save people once, right?”
Something in my chest tightens. “Usually not.”
“They teach people how to be safe,” she says thoughtfully. “So they don’t have to be rescued again.”
Abby looks up at that, her attention snagged despite herself.
“That’s true,” I say carefully.
Daisy brightens. “Could I come see where you work? To learn more? For my project.”
The room seems to go still.
I feel Abby’s gaze on me. It’s sharp, assessing, and already braced for a boundary to be crossed.
I straighten slowly, making sure my voice stays calm.
“I don’t work there full-time,” I say. “But if your mom says it’s okay, you could come by the firehouse. We could show you the engines. Talk about safety.”
Daisy’s eyes grow wide. “Really?”
“Really. But only if your mom’s comfortable with it.”
All eyes turn to Abby.
She hesitates just a fraction of a second too long.
I see it then. The fear beneath the composure. The calculation. The instinct to protect her daughter from attachments that might not last.
“This isn’t a regular thing,” she says carefully. “It would just be for the project.”
“Of course,” I reply immediately. “No pressure.”
Daisy looks between us, then beams like she’s already decided the outcome. “It’s just learning,” she says brightly. “Learning is safe.”
Abby exhales slowly, defeated by her own logic and her daughter’s earnest hope.
“Okay,” she says. “We can come by. Briefly.”
Daisy squeals and throws her arms around my waist before I can react.
I freeze for half a heartbeat. Then, I carefully rest my hands on her back, grounding myself.
“Thank you,” she says into my jacket, muffled and sincere.
Abby watches the whole thing, her expression unreadable to the average person. But I’m not the average person. Even after more than a decade, I know this woman better than I know myself. Which is how I see it in her eyes. This isn’t just about a school project.
It’s about whether she can trust me to stay.