"My brother would like you," I tell her as she steals the last cranberry from what was definitely my half. "He appreciates people who aren't afraid to take food from his plate."
"You have a brother?" she asks, looking surprised.
"Older. Lives in Portland with his wife and kids. Pediatrician, of course. The good son."
She studies me for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "You don't sound bitter."
"I'm not," I realize, meaning it. "We found our own paths. It worked out."
Outside, snow has started falling again, fat flakes drifting past the windows in the dim evening light.
"Want to walk for a bit?" I ask, not ready for the evening to end.
Savannah nods, and we step outside into the gently falling snow. The streets are quiet, most businesses closed for the night. Holiday lights reflect off the fresh powder, casting everything in a soft, multicolored glow. Without discussing it, we start walking, our breath fogging in the cold air.
"It's beautiful," Savannah says, looking up at the falling snow with childlike wonder. A flake lands on her eyelashes, and I have to physically restrain myself from brushing it away.
"Yes," I agree, not looking at the snow at all.
We pause beneath the large pine in the town square, its branches heavy with decorations that shimmer in the dim light. Savannah stands close enough that I can feel her warmth, her face upturned to mine, snowflakes melting in her hair.
I lean in slightly, drawn by a force I can't resist. Savannah's eyes widen, her lips parting on a soft inhale.
"This is good," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. "For the fake dating thing, I mean. Being seen together like this. It makes it more believable."
The words hit like ice water. Fake dating.Right.
I straighten, something cold and heavy settling in my chest. Of course. This is all part of the act for her. The laughing, the shared dessert, the walking close—just maintaining our cover.
"Right," I say, forcing a smile that feels wooden. "Exactly."
Confusion flickers across her face. I step back slightly, creating distance between us, and something like hurt flashes in her eyes. Before either of us can say anything more, my radio crackles to life at my hip, dispatch's voice cutting through the quiet night: "All units respond, structure fire at 1752 Briarwood Road. Repeat, all units..."
Adrenaline surges through me, muscle memory taking over.
"I have to go," I tell Savannah, already reaching for my phone to call the station directly.
"Of course," she says, worry etching itself across her features. "Be careful."
I want to say more, to explain that this isn't how I wanted our evening to end, to tell her that nothing about tonight felt fake to me, but there's no time. Lives could be at stake.
"I'll come back," I promise instead, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. Then I'm running toward the station, the cold air burning my lungs, leaving Savannah standing alone in the falling snow.
The house on Briarwood Road is already engulfed when we arrive six minutes later, flames licking out windows, black smoke billowing against the night sky. The contrast is brutal—fire against snow, destruction against winter's stillness. My mind shifts fully into professional mode, assessing risks, planning entry points, cataloging resources as I pull on my gear with practiced efficiency.
"Neighbor says Mrs. Caldwell is still inside," Paul shouts as we finish gearing up. "Upstairs bedroom, east side."
"I've got her," I respond immediately, already checking my mask and oxygen.
Paul gives me a sharp nod. "Bradley, back him up. Nathan, get medical ready."
The rush of entering a burning building never gets easier, never becomes routine. Heat slams into me like a physical force, smoke immediately obscuring my vision despite the mask. The staircase groans under my weight, weakened by flames eating through the structure. Sweat runs down my back despite the winter night outside. I push forward, moving toward where I know the bedrooms should be. The smoke thickens, making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
"Fire department! Call out!" I shout, straining to hear any response over the roar of the flames.
A faint sound draws me to the right. I find Mrs. Caldwell on the floor beside her bed, conscious but disoriented, struggling to breathe in the toxic air.
"I've got you," I tell her, my voice muffled through the mask. "I'm going to get you out."
