"One of my paramedics, Jack McKenzie, seems to agree. Her... public appreciation for him on the radio last month caused a situation at my station." I kept my tone neutral, watching his reaction carefully.
Jimmy's expression didn't change to gossip mode. Instead, he nodded thoughtfully. "I heard some of the chatter. Sophia's very professional. And Jack's a good medic. On our end, that's all that matters."
No fishing for details. No attempts to dish about his colleague. Just quiet respect for both parties involved. Something in my chest loosened — a test I hadn't realized I was giving, passed without him even knowing he was taking it.
"Good," I said simply. "That's... good to hear."
The moment stretched between us, and I felt that dangerous flutter again. This man understood discretion. Professional boundaries. The kind of person you could trust.
In the comfortable silence that followed, I felt a wave of exhaustion hit me, sudden and profound. The reality of the last day crashed back down.
"It's just... hard," I heard myself say, the words escaping before I could stop them. "I'm used to being the one with the plan. Run into the building, put out the fire, rescue the victim. There are steps. With this... with Cap... there's no plan. There's nothing to fix. I just feel... useless."
The confession hung in the air, raw and exposed. I bracedmyself for platitudes, for the "I'm sure it'll be okay" that people always said when they didn't know what else to do.
Instead, Jimmy reached across the table and covered my hand with his. His touch was warm and steady — a quiet anchor in the sudden storm of my vulnerability. His hand was large, the back of it dusted with fine hair, a stark contrast to my own calloused, scarred fingers. The simple contact sent a jolt through me, sharp and clean and utterly unexpected.
"You're not useless," he said, his voice soft but firm, his green eyes holding mine. "You're showing up. For him, right now, that's the most useful thing in the world."
I stared at him, unable to speak. The world seemed to narrow to the small space between us, to the feeling of his hand covering mine. He wasn't trying to fix it. He was just... there. Present. Not turning away from the problem or from me.
He pulled his hand back after a moment, and the air rushed back into my lungs.
When we finally left the coffee shop, the afternoon sun felt warmer, the air less heavy. We stood on the sidewalk, and I realized I didn't want this to end.
"I had a really good time," I said. "Thank you. For the coffee, for listening, for... everything."
"Thank you for asking me," he said. "And for trusting me with Cap's care."
"Maybe we could do this again sometime," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them.
Jimmy's smile was answer enough. "I'd like that. A lot."
As I drove home, I caught myself smiling at nothing, replaying conversations and the way he'd looked at me when I'd talked about my work. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt seen — not as Lieutenant Delgado or Cap's surrogate daughter or the woman who had to be stronger than everyone else.
Just as Izzy.
chapter
ten
The text satin my drafts folder for forty-seven minutes while I second-guessed every word choice. I'd written it, deleted it, rewritten it, and deleted it again so many times that my phone probably thought I was having some kind of digital seizure.
Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow? I could cook. Nothing fancy, just...
Delete.
Hey, want to grab dinner at my place tomorrow? I make a mean...
Delete.
I know this is forward, but would you want to come over for a home-cooked meal? I'd love to...
Dear God, that sounded like a dating app message from a serial killer.
I was sitting in the Metro General break room at 11 p.m., nursing my third cup of coffee and trying to convince myself that asking someone to dinner was not, in fact, rocket science. Around me, the night shift moved through its familiar rhythms — Chloe was reviewing medication calculations at the next table, Carly was on the phone with Admitting aboutbed assignments, and somewhere in the distance, an IV pump was beeping the eternal, mechanical song of its people.
But my mind kept drifting back to yesterday afternoon. To the way Izzy had looked when she'd talked about feeling useless, the vulnerability she'd let slip through her armor. To the moment when I'd covered her hand with mine and watched something shift in her dark eyes.
