"We're looking at a few days for the procedure and recovery, assuming everything goes smoothly."
That wasn't what I'd been asking, and we all knew it. But it was the only answer I was going to get tonight.
"Well," Cap said after Dr. Lee left, "this is a hell of a thing."
Margaret reached for his other hand, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "The important thing is that you're here, and you're getting help."
"The important thing," Cap said, looking directly at me, "is that I'm not going anywhere yet. I've got too much left to do."
I felt something crack open in my chest — a hairline fracture in the armor I'd been wearing for so long I'd forgotten it was there. This was Cap. Cap, who'd taught me how to read smoke, how to command a scene, how to earn respect without compromising who I was. Cap, who'd been at my father's funeral and promised to look after me. Cap, who was more of a father to me than anyone else had ever been.
And he was dying. Maybe not tonight, maybe not next week, but soon. Sooner than any of us were ready for.
"Hey," he said quietly, squeezing my hand. "I'm okay, kiddo. I'm still here."
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Behind me, I heard the soft rustle of scrubs, and I turned to see Jimmy in the doorway. He looked tired, concerned, but not surprised — which confirmed my suspicion that he'd known Cap was here before I did.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, his voice professionally neutral. "I just wanted to check on how everyone was doing."
"Jimmy," Cap said, his face brightening. "Good to see you, son."
"Good to see you too, Cap. Though I wish it was under better circumstances."
I caught Jimmy's eye, and in that brief moment, I saw the careful concern there, the way he was trying to balance his professional obligations with his personal feelings. He'd known Cap was here, had probably been the one taking care of him, and had found a way to let me know without crossing any lines.
"Thank you," I said quietly, and he understood I wasn't just talking about tonight.
"Just doing my job," he replied, but his smile was warm and real.
As he left to check on other patients, I settled back into the chair beside Cap's bed. Margaret had found another chair on the other side, and the three of us sat in the kind ofcomfortable silence that came from people who'd been through hard things together.
"You know," Cap said eventually, his voice thoughtful, "I've been thinking about your father a lot lately."
My chest tightened. Cap didn't often talk about my dad, understanding that the subject was still raw for me even after all these years.
"He would have been so proud of you, Izzy. The woman you've become, the officer you are. He always said you had the heart for this job, even when you were just a kid following him around the volunteer house."
"I miss him," I said quietly.
"I know you do. I miss him, too." Cap's grip on my hand tightened slightly. "But he's not really gone, you know. He's in every decision you make on the fireground, every time you put your crew's safety first, every time you refuse to let someone tell you that you don't belong."
Margaret reached across the bed to squeeze my other hand. "Your father would be amazed by the woman you've become."
I sat there in the fluorescent-lit hospital room, holding hands with the two people who knew me best in the world, and felt something I hadn't allowed myself to feel in a long time: vulnerable. Not weak, but open. Not broken, but human.
Outside, Metro General continued its nightly rhythm of healing and heartbreak. Somewhere in the hospital, Jimmy was taking care of other patients, bringing his quiet competence and gentle humor to people having the worst nights of their lives. My crew at Station 2 was probably handling calls without me, Thompson stepping into the leadership role with the gruff efficiency that made him such a good firefighter.
But here, in this small bay surrounded by medical equipment and the soft beeping of monitors, I was just Izzy. Not Lieutenant Delgado, not the woman who had to be strongerthan everyone else, just a daughter afraid of losing another father.
"I'm scared," I admitted, the words coming out barely above a whisper.
"I know you are," Cap said. "But fear don't make you weak, kiddo. Fear makes you human. And being human is what makes you a good leader."
Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and silent.
“That nurse …” Cap continued, his eyes finding mine again. “Jimmy. He’s a good man. I see the way he looks at you.” He took a shallow, rattling breath. “It’s good to see you happy, kiddo. Really good.”
He squeezed my hand, his grip surprisingly weak. “Promise me you’ll let yourself be happy. You deserve that.”
