Chapter 8
EIGHT
brENDON
I tell myself I’m doing the right thing.
That’s what I’ve always done when something hurts too much: I slap a label on it, call it noble, and walk away before anyone can see how badly it gutted me.
It worked when I was eighteen.
It worked when I was twenty-four and living out of a duffel bag, moving from base to base, convincing myself that keeping distance meant keeping control.
It does not work now.
Now I’m parked on a snow-packed shoulder a mile away from Abby’s café, my hands still clenched around the steering wheel like I’m bracing for impact, and all I can hear is Daisy’s small voice saying one word that should have felt like a miracle.
Dad.
I should feel honored.
I do, in a way that terrifies me.
But mostly I feel the sick drop in my stomach as Abby’s face flashes through my mind, white as paper, panic widening her eyes, the way her whole body went rigid like she’d been hit.
She’s not wrong. Not really.
She has every reason not to trust permanence. Every reason to protect her kid from anything that might hurt.
And I… I have made a life out of leaving.
Even when it wasn’t my choice. Even when it broke something in me each time.
I press my forehead to the steering wheel and breathe, hard and slow, trying to get the adrenaline out of my blood. The inside of my truck smells faintly like sawdust and coffee and the cheap pine air freshener my mom insisted I hang up because she “couldn’t stand that man smell.”
I laugh once, bitter.
The thing Abby doesn’t understand is that I’m not afraid of being called dad.
I’m afraid of believing I deserve it.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat.
For a split second, I think it’ll be Abby, and my whole chest tightens with a hope I don’t want to own.
It’s Justin.
You coming by? Aaron wants to go over tomorrow’s drill schedule.
I stare at the message, then type back: On my way.
Because I need somewhere to put myself that isn’t Abby’s driveway. I need walls and noise and other men’s voices to drown out the one word that is echoing too loud in my head.
By the time I pull into the station bay, my jaw is locked so tight it aches.
Aaron is at the table with a clipboard, Kendrick leaning against the counter with a water bottle, Justin digging through the fridge like he’s searching for something that might fix his life.
They all look up when I walk in.
Justin’s eyebrows lift. “Well. You look like you lost a fight with a snowplow.”
“Feel like it too,” I mutter.
Aaron doesn’t smile. He just studies me in that calm, steady way he has when something is serious. “You okay?”
I toss my keys on the table and sit hard in the nearest chair. “No.”
The word surprises me with how easy it comes out.
Kendrick straightens, interest sharpening. “That’s new.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Daisy called me Dad.”
Silence.
Justin’s mouth parts slightly. Kendrick’s expression shifts into something that looks like understanding. Aaron’s gaze goes very still.
“That’s… a lot,” Aaron says carefully.
“It is,” I reply, staring at the table. “And Abby… she panicked. She thinks I’m going to leave.”
Justin leans forward. “Are you?”
“No,” I snap, then soften because it’s not his fault I’m unraveling. “No. I’m not. But I get why she thinks I might.”
Kendrick’s voice is quiet. “What did you do?”
I exhale. “Nothing. That’s kind of the problem. I didn’t do anything. I just stood there and watched her get scared and then I walked out like I always do.”
Aaron’s eyes narrow slightly. “Why?”
Because it’s what I know. Because I’m good at leaving. Because I learned early that staying meant pain.
I swallow hard. “Because I don’t want to hurt Daisy.”
Justin snorts softly. “Walking away will definitely fix that.”
I glare at him, but he just looks back with frustrating honesty.
Kendrick crosses his arms. “You know what’s worse than her calling you Dad?”
“What?”
“You disappearing after she did,” Kendrick says. “That kid already lost one father. You want to be the guy who teaches her she can’t trust anyone else?”
The words land hard, sharp enough to slice through my self-pity.
I stare down at my hands. There’s a faint smear of coffee grounds on my thumb from earlier, like proof I was in Abby’s café, in her life, in her world, and I didn’t know how to hold it.
Aaron’s voice is steady. “What do you want, Brendon?”
The question makes my chest tighten.
I think of Abby in her kitchen, hair down, eyes fierce even when she was afraid. I think of the way she kissed me when she finally let herself stop bracing.
I think of Daisy’s arms around my waist, her small body trusting me without reservation.
I swallow. “I want to stay.”
Justin nods once, like that’s the only answer that matters. “Then stay.”
Kendrick’s gaze softens. “But do it right,” he adds. “Not halfway. Not when it’s convenient.”
I exhale slowly. “I don’t know how.”
Aaron leans forward, his elbows on the table. “You learn,” he says simply. “Just like you learned everything else. One day at a time.”
My phone buzzes again.
This time, my heart stutters for a different reason. It’s the station dispatcher line.
Aaron answers, listens for three seconds, and his face changes.
“School,” he says, already standing. “Alarm. Smoke reported.”
My blood turns cold.
Not because it’s a call.
Because Daisy goes to that school.
The drive there feels like it takes forever and no time at all.
Sirens cut through the winter air, bouncing off snowbanks, off the side of buildings, off the inside of my skull. I’m strapped in, gear on, brain cycling through worst-case scenarios faster than I can shut them down.
Aaron’s voice is calm in the cab. “We don’t know the extent yet. Stay focused.”
Focused. Right.
The elementary school comes into view, lights flashing against the pale afternoon, a thin line of smoke curling out from somewhere near the back wing.
My stomach drops.
Kids and teachers cluster outside near the playground, bundled in coats, some crying, some wide-eyed, a teacher counting heads with frantic urgency.
We jump out, boots hitting ice.
“Command,” Aaron calls, immediately moving toward the staff. Kendrick and Justin peel off to grab hoses and gear.
I scan the crowd, eyes searching, searching, searching.
Abby.
Daisy.
I see Abby near the front, hair pulled back, coat thrown on over whatever she was wearing inside. Her face is stark with fear, eyes wild as she talks to a teacher.
Then she turns, sees me, and for one second I see something in her expression that guts me.
Hope.
It’s quick, involuntary, like her body trusts me even when her mind doesn’t want to.
She runs toward me.
“Daisy,” she says, voice breaking. “They can’t find Daisy.”
The world narrows.
All sound drops away except the pounding of my heart.
“What do you mean they can’t find her?” I ask, my voice too sharp.
Abby’s hands grip my jacket. “They were evacuating and she was right behind her class and then someone said a kid fell and she—she must have gone back. She wouldn’t leave someone. She wouldn’t.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts.
Of course she wouldn’t.
Daisy, brave and stubborn and determined to help, because that’s what Abby raised her to be.
Aaron’s voice cuts in, calm but urgent. “We need to confirm location.”
The teacher Abby was speaking with steps forward, shaking. “It’s the east hallway. Near the art room. We thought everyone was out but one student said they saw a little girl go back for another child.”
My blood goes ice cold.
I don’t wait.
“Brendon,” Abby says, her voice small now, like she’s trying not to break. “Please.”
I meet her eyes. I take her face in my hands, right there in front of the whole school, because I need her to hear me.
“I’m bringing her out,” I say, voice low, steady. “I’m bringing her out.”
Abby’s lips part like she wants to speak but can’t.
I release her gently and turn toward the building.
Justin catches my arm. “You’re not going in alone.”
“I know,” I snap, then breathe. “I know.”
Kendrick is already beside us, mask on, eyes focused. “East hallway,” he says.
We go.
The inside is chaos in the way fire always is. Smoke has pushed low through the corridor, the air thick and hot, the alarm shrieking like an animal.
“Firefighters!” I shout. “If you can hear me, call out!”
A faint cough answers.
I follow it, moving low, scanning with my light.
My mind is screaming Abby’s name, Daisy’s name, every prayer I’ve ever pretended I didn’t believe in.
We reach the art room door. It’s warm to the touch.
“Here,” Kendrick says, voice muffled through his mask.
We force it open.
Smoke pours out like a wave.
Inside, the room is dim, shapes distorted, but my light catches movement near the far wall.
Two small figures.
One is Daisy. I know her instantly, daisy clip still in her hair, her face streaked with soot.
The other kid is older, sitting on the floor with one leg out awkwardly, clutching their knee, eyes wide and panicked.
Daisy is bent beside them, one arm around their shoulders, trying to haul them up.
“Daisy!” I shout.
She turns her head, and even through the mask I see the relief flood her face. “Brendon!”
My chest aches at the sound of my name in her voice.
“I need you to listen,” I say, dropping to one knee beside them. “You did a brave thing, but now you’re going to let me help, okay?”
Daisy nods rapidly. “They couldn’t walk,” she blurts. “They fell and they were crying.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “You did good. Now we get all of you out.”
Kendrick moves to the injured kid, lifting them carefully. Justin stays near the door, scanning for flare-ups.
I turn back to Daisy. Her cough is worse than last time. Her small chest rises too fast.
Fear punches me in the gut.
I scoop her up, tucking her against my chest the same way I did in the house fire. She clings to my jacket immediately, fingers tight.
“I’m here,” I murmur into her hair. “I’ve got you.”
We move out fast, low under the smoke, the hallway a tunnel of heat and noise.
For one awful second, a beam creaks overhead and my heart stops.
Then we’re clear.
Cold air hits us like mercy.
Outside, Abby is already running, her face crumpling as soon as she sees Daisy in my arms.
I don’t even make it to the medics before Abby reaches us, hands shaking as she grabs Daisy’s blanket, her voice breaking on her name.
Daisy coughs and then, unbelievably, tries to smile.
“Mom,” she wheezes, proud even now, “I saved someone.”
Abby presses her face to Daisy’s hair, sobbing. “You saved me,” she whispers. “You saved me.”
Then Abby looks up at me.
Her eyes are wet. Her face is streaked with tears and winter air. Her hands grip my jacket like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
I’m shaking too, adrenaline and terror crashing out of me all at once.
“I was so scared,” she says, voice raw. “I was so scared.”
“I know,” I whisper.
I want to tell her I was scared too. That for a second in that hallway, my entire world narrowed to a daisy clip and the thought that I might not get her out in time.
But I can’t speak. My throat won’t let me.
Instead I pull Abby into me, right there in front of everyone, careful not to crush Daisy between us, and Abby goes willingly, collapsing against my chest as if her body finally believes what her mind keeps refusing.
I hold her.
I hold them both.
And in that moment, I know something with bone-deep certainty.
Walking away would destroy all of us.
I can’t do it again.
Not after this.
Not after her.
Not after Daisy calling me Dad, and then almost losing her.
Abby lifts her head, eyes searching my face. “Don’t leave,” she whispers.
The words hit me like a vow.
“I’m not,” I say, voice steady at last. “I’m not leaving.”