My head feels stuck in one place. There are a hundred things to do, but I can’t seem to do them. My crew starts to break down the scene in practiced motions—hoses rolled, gear stowed, radios quieting to short, efficient bursts of communication. Chief Morales hands out water bottles. Theo starts taking photos of the damaged panel through the open back door. The crisis is officially over. What’s left is paperwork, inspections, and inconvenience.
I should be wrapping things up. Checking in with Morales. Getting ready to clear the scene. Instead, my attention keeps snapping back to Harper like a bad habit I never kicked.
The boy is finally on his feet now, though he hasn’t let go of her hand. His fingers are curled tight around hers, knuckles pale, his body leaning into her leg like gravity works differently when he’s scared. Harper keeps rubbing her thumb over his hand, slow and steady, the motion so unconscious it has to be muscle memory.
That’s what hits me hardest.
She isn’t rattled. Not really. Shaken, sure—but steady. She handled the bar evacuation like she knows how to move throughchaos without losing herself. She’s not the twenty-two-year-old I left in a cabin with a half-formed apology and a closed-off heart.
She’s stronger now. And she didn’t need me to get there.
That tracks. The only people who need me are my crew and the people we save. That’s how it’s supposed to be.
Garrett sidles up next to me, helmet dangling from one hand, expression way too interested for my liking. “So,” he says under his breath, “you planning to acknowledge the elephant in the room, or are we just pretending you’re paying attention?”
“Go pack up,” I tell him.
He grins. “You didn’t deny it.”
I don’t respond. If I open my mouth, something unprofessional might come out.
The boy shifts, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand, exhaustion finally starting to outweigh adrenaline. His shoulders slump, head tipping forward for a second before he catches himself. “Mommy, I’m tired.”
Harper crouches immediately, bringing herself down to his level. “I know, Mason. We’ll get you somewhere quiet soon.”
“Can we go home?”
Her face tightens for just a fraction of a second—so fast I wouldn’t have caught it if I wasn’t watching her like this. Calculations flicker behind her eyes. It’s the first time she’s looked unsure about anything tonight.
Carlie asks, “What is it?”
Harper sighs. “The apartment upstairs we were supposed to move into tonight… not really an option. My old lease ended today. Some of our stuff is in storage, some of it is in my car?—”
“You can stay with me,” Carlie offers quickly. “I can make room… somewhere. It’s not fancy, but?—”
“I don’t want to put you out,” Harper says quietly.
“You wouldn’t be,” Carlie insists, but I know better, and by the look of things, so does Harper. Not only is my sisterfastidious to the point of being neurotic, but her place is small. She says it’s easier to keep it clean that way, as if she doesn’t have a cleaning lady. It’s barely larger than a studio apartment. There is no room for two more people or the messes they’d bring.
Something in my chest tightens, sharp and immediate. I don’t speak yet. I don’t interrupt. I just stand there, watching the pieces line up—fatigue, logistics, pride, fear—feeling the pressure build in a way that’s uncomfortably familiar.
This is the moment before a bad decision. And I can feel it coming.
It’s the same pressure that builds right before you step into a burning room—when every instinct says wait, reassess, don’t rush, and something deeper says move now or you’ll regret it forever. I’ve learned to trust that instinct on calls. It’s saved lives.
Mason blinks hard, his head dipping forward again before he catches himself. Harper steadies him automatically, one hand firm at his back.
She straightens and looks between Carlie and Mason, already bracing herself to make a plan that works for everyone but her. I see it happening in real time—the way she pulls herself inward, shoulders squaring, voice steadying. The way she prepares to shoulder it alone.
Carlie opens her mouth again. “You really can stay with me,” she says, trying to sell it harder this time. “I can take the couch, Mason can?—”
“I appreciate it. I just—it might be better to get a hotel for the night and figure things out in the morning. I don’t want to bring chaos into your home.” She smiles and points over Mason’s head without him seeing her do it.
I think about her carrying a half-asleep kid through a lobby at midnight, juggling bags and paperwork and exhaustion. I think about how she didn’t ask for any of this and how she’ll still make it work if no one steps in. And in the back of my mind isthe oversized penthouse I go back to every night. Empty. Quiet. Clinically sterile, Carlie calls it.
The words form before I consciously decide to say them. “You can stay with me.”
Harper looks up, startled, eyes snapping to mine. Carlie freezes beside her, brow arching in anger or shock, I can’t tell which.
