"You know what I want?" I said, my fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "I want Sunday mornings where we don't have to get up for calls or shifts. I want to watch you teach our kids to make pancakes while I'm still in my pajamas, complaining about how loud you all are. I want family dinners where they tell us about their days and we pretend to be shocked by their adventures." I paused, my voice growing softer. "I want to be the kind of parents who are still disgustingly in love after twenty years, the kind our kids roll their eyes at but secretly hope to find for themselves."
“Sounds good, as long as I get to be the embarrassing dad who brags about his wife to anyone who'll listen. 'That's my wife running into that burning building. Yeah, she's a badass. Yeah, I'm lucky.'"
"You're ridiculous," I said, but I was grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
"Ridiculously in love with you," he said, echoing our earlier conversation. "And speaking of practicing for our future..." His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing lazy circles on my hip. "I heard birth control is 99% effective, but those sound like odds I'm willing to challenge."
"Jimmy Dalton," I said, trying to sound scandalized but failing completely. "Are you suggesting we try to beat the statistics?"
"I'm suggesting we keep practicing," he said innocently. "For science. You know, when we're ready."
"Soon, loverboy," I said, leaning down to kiss him softly. "But we've got some things to figure out first. Like whether you can actually handle being married to a firefighter."
"Try me," he said, his voice taking on that confident tone that made my toes curl. "I've got excellent stamina for long-term projects."
"Is that your professional medical opinion?"
"That's my personal guarantee." He rolled us over so he was looking down at me, his green eyes warm in the streetlight filtering through my curtains. "I want everything with you, Izzy. The good calls and the bad ones, the boring Tuesday nights and the emergency room visits. All of it."
"Even when I come home grumpy because C-shift left the station a disaster and my crew's complaining about the hose loads again?"
"Especially then. I'll make you dinner and let you vent about incompetent colleagues while I plot ways to anonymously send them proper training materials."
I reached up to cup his face, feeling the slight roughness of stubble under my palms. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."
"Good," he said, pressing a kiss to my palm. "Love should be a little scary. It means it matters."
"It matters," I agreed. "You matter. This matters."
"Then we'll take care of it," he said simply. "We'll take care of each other."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He settled back down beside me, pulling me close again. "Now get some sleep, future Fire Chief. You've got a department to revolutionize and a boyfriend to wear out."
"Is that a challenge?"
"That's a promise," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "We've got all the time in the world to practice."
six months later
The late afternoonsun cast long shadows across the apparatus bay at Station 2, the light catching on the polished chrome of Engine 18. It was a perfect autumn day, the kind that felt full of promise. I leaned against the front of the truck, a comfortable warmth settled deep in my chest, and watched my crew.
Thompson and Martinez were locked in a merciless game of cornhole on the apron, their insults escalating with each errant toss. Benny was in his usual spot in the recliner, pretending to readFire Chiefmagazine but actually dozing. It was a scene of perfect, mundane normalcy, and six months ago, I would have given anything for it.
The past few months had been a study in rebuilding. After the disastrous promotion cycle and the raw grief of losing Cap, I had thrown myself into being the kind of leader he had always believed I could be. The cold, impenetrable armor was gone, replaced by a strength that was quieter, more confident. I still pushed my crew to be their best, but the teaching moments had returned. The easy banter was back. I was still their lieutenant, but I was one of them again.
It turned out that being the kind of leader people chose to follow was infinitely more satisfying than any rank the department could have given me.
I'd heard through the grapevine that Station 12's response times had been slipping. Nothing catastrophic … just consistently slower than they should be. Martinez had mentioned that his buddy on C-shift said Santoro was "still figuring out the administrative side." Last week, Thompson had casually dropped that Evans had to smooth something over with the mayor's office. "Protocol issue at 12," he'd said with a shrug.
I didn't ask for details. Didn't need them.
Santoro was exactly what I'd always known he was: a politician who'd gotten promoted beyond his competence. The system would protect him, cover for him, make excuses. That was how it worked. Some days, that still made me angry. Most days, I just didn't care anymore.
I had my crew. I had my future. I had something real to build instead of a rank to chase.
My phone buzzed with a text.
