I head out to the bay, where a small group of our current overnight crew is already suiting up.
“Minor call,” I bark out. “Engine Two, Ladder One. Reyes and Trent, Zimmerman and Goring. Everyone else, stand down until we confirm escalation.”
Station 47 moves like a well-oiled machine, treating even a tiny emergency like this as if it’s the most important thing in the world. I stand to the side, hands on my hips, watching as the designated crew members hop up into the truck and head out into the chilly September evening. They don’t even bother with the sirens, since it’ll only take a minute or two to curve up the two blocks toward the restaurant.
Chances are that by the time they get there, the fire will be nothing but smoke and disgruntlement. A quick call followed by an efficient return to the station. Just another night on duty.
Of course, there’s always potential for true disaster. It’s New York, after all, and there are people on the crew here who lost relatives on 9/11. We never forget that the worst day of our career can happen at any moment. It’s no laughing matter. Even Trent understands that.
The alarms die out after only a couple of minutes, and when the flurry settles back into the usual routine, I glance up toward the mezzanine.
As if eager to look like a modern-day Rapunzel in Lululemon, Lila is leaning precariously over the railing, her long blonde hair spilling down like a curtain on one side of her head. She’s smiling to herself, it seems, and has her pink iPhone—from which dangles, for some unknown reason, a string of glittery beads—aimed down at the main floor of the station.
Because of course the alarms didn’t spook her. Of course she’s having the time of her life right now.
And of course she’s stupid enough to be standing barefoot in the middle of a fire station, practically dangling herself precisely twenty-six feet above a solid concrete floor.
What a distraction it would be, honestly, if she fell and broke her leg. Or her arm. Or worse. That would certainly help our reputation.Local Civilian Cracks Open Skull at Careless,Reckless, Idiotic Station 47 in Midtown Manhattan—Details Forthcoming.
I really don’t have time for this.
I take the spiral stairs up to the mezzanine two at a time, my boots clanging on the steel.
Her outfit nearly makes me stumble. It’s all skintight spandex in an admittedly nice shade of burgundy, and even though the full-length leggings and long sleeves cover most of her skin, they leave nothing to the imagination where her slender curves are concerned.
Which is, obviously, irrelevant. Completely not worth noting.
Lila doesn’t so much as flinch when she detects my approach. She simply turns and angles her phone toward me, like she’s been waiting for me to come up here all along.
“Captain Hargrove, would you mind explaining the incredible display of efficiency we just witnessed below?”
I stop short, leaving a few feet of space between us. “Who is ‘we’?”
“TikTok, of course.” She grins, like she’s explaining something terribly obvious. “And Instagram. Twitter, too, once I get the login information from your communications manager and—”
“Put the phone down,” I snap.
Footsteps echo below on the metal stairs — familiar, unhurried.
Trent’s voice drifts up. “Everything cool up there, Cap?”
Lila’s gaze slides past my shoulder, and something bright and pleased flashes in her expression like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I don’t look away from her.
“Fine,” I call down.
A pause.
“Sure,” Trent says, like he doesn’t believe me for a second.
Her chin tips up—defiant—eyes bright like she’s daring me to make her.
So I reach for it.
My fingers close over the edge of her phone at the same time hers tighten around it, and for a second we’re locked in the same object, the same breath, the same stubborn moment.
Her hand is small and warm. Mine swallows it.
