“So,” she says, expression unreadable, “Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue.”
I shrug. “Somebody’s gotta keep the mountain from burning down.”
“And that somebody is you?”
“Apparently.” I force a grin. “Try not to look so impressed.”
She fights a smile. A tiny one. Barely there.
But it’s enough to crack something inside my chest.
I pull open the upper med cabinet, careful not to brush her, even though she’s close enough that her shoulder could graze my arm with the slightest shift.
“The access code is six-five-two-nine,” I say, tapping the keypad. “You’ll need it for every restock.”
She nods, repeating softly, “Six-five-two-nine.”
My stomach twists. I wonder if she remembers. Those numbers—those were our soccer numbers when we were kids. Mine 65, hers 29.
“Supply check?” she asks.
I nod, reaching for the trauma kit. “Let’s start with airway.”
We work silently for a minute. Too silently. The air thickens, warm, heavy. I double-check the bag valve mask, hands steady but jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Then she asks, “How long have you been with the department?”
“Almost ten years. Did fire academy the summer I turned seventeen, specialized in wildland training and was on probation ’til I turned eighteen.”
I see the moment that number registers.
Ten years since the fire. Ten years since she left. Ten years since the world cracked open.
She swallows once but stays composed. “You knew what you wanted early.”
No. I knewwhoI wanted early.
“You could say that,” I answer.
She checks the glucometer, fingers deft and precise. She always had steady hands. I’ve watched them braid friendship bracelets. Stitch up her backpack. Cup my jaw the first time she kissed me?—
I shove the memory down hard.
“What about you?” I ask. “Captain mentioned Peace Corps. EMT. Paramedic. That’s a hell of a resume.”
Her mouth lifts slightly. “I like to stay useful.”
“You were always useful.”
She stiffens almost imperceptibly.
I swear under my breath.
Smooth, Ramirez. Real smooth.
Before I can backtrack, she says calmly, “Well. People change.”
Not always.
