How can I promise to protect a child when I couldn't even keep Lisa safe?
The thought gutted me, the same way it had every night since Sarah Martin had told me about the murder. Lisa Harris, thirty-eight years old, beaten to death by the man who'd stood in my ER and threatened my colleagues while I'd tried so desperately to save her. I'd given her resources, safety planning, promises that there were people who could help. And she'd walked out anyway, back to the man who killed her three weeks later.
I'd failed her completely. Failed at the one thing that defined who I was supposed to be — a protector, a healer, someone who made things better instead of worse.
How could I promise Izzy I'd protect our children when I couldn't save one woman who'd trusted me to keep her alive?
My arm tightened involuntarily around Izzy's waist, andshe stirred slightly, making a soft sound that drove another spike of self-loathing through my chest. Even in sleep, she was reaching for connection, seeking comfort from the man who was slowly destroying everything good between them.
I remembered the first time I'd seen her in command — that night when she'd brought Cap to the ER, all professional competence and barely controlled fear. The way she'd advocated for him, demanded the best care, never backed down even when she was terrified. And later, watching her crew respond to her orders with absolute trust, seeing the respect in their eyes when they talked about her.
She was a leader. A protector. Someone who ran toward danger because that's what the job demanded, and she was brave enough to do it perfectly.
And I was lying in her bed like a parasite, taking her comfort while giving nothing back except my own damage.
The digital clock continued counting the minutes. Izzy's breathing remained steady, finally deep in real sleep after the emotional exhaustion of the past few days. Carefully, moving with the same precision I used when starting an IV on a difficult patient, I began to extract myself from her arms.
But first, barely breathing, I let my hand trace the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the constellation of freckles across her shoulder that I'd memorized during lazy Sunday mornings. Every scar from her years of running toward danger, every soft curve, every strong line of muscle earned through years of hauling equipment and pulling people from wreckage. I was trying to memorize her, knowing this might be the last time I'd have the right to touch her like this.
She murmured something unintelligible as I slipped away, her hand searching for me across the sheets. I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound as I pulled on my clothes in the dark, every movement feeling like a betrayal.
At her bedroom doorway, I looked back. She was curled on her side now, dark hair spilled across the pillow, one handstill reaching toward the empty space where I'd been lying. Beautiful. Strong. Deserving of so much more than what I could give her.
I let myself out of her apartment as quietly as I'd ever done anything, the soft click of the lock engaging behind me sounding like a door closing on everything I'd ever wanted but was too damaged to keep.
The drive home through the empty streets felt like a funeral procession. Dawn was breaking over the city, painting everything in that flat, gray light that made everything look tired and used up. My phone sat in the cup holder, silent. No messages from work, no emergencies requiring my attention. Just me and the growing certainty that I was going to lose the best thing that had ever happened to me because I wasn't brave enough to be what she deserved.
Back in my apartment, I made coffee with shaking hands and sat at my kitchen table, staring at my laptop screen. The cursor blinked in the empty document, waiting. I'd been thinking about this for days, ever since I'd realized how badly I'd handled the children conversation. I couldn't give Izzy the future she wanted, but maybe — maybe I could give her the career she'd earned.
I began to type:
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing to provide a character reference for Lieutenant Isabela Delgado of Summit County Fire Rescue, whom I have had the privilege to observe in both professional and personal contexts over the past several months.
The words came easier than I'd expected, flowing from a place of absolute certainty. This, at least, I could do right. I could tell the truth about her competence, her leadership, her unwavering commitment to the people under her command. I could fight for her promotion even if I couldn't fight for our relationship.
Lieutenant Delgado's tactical decision-making underpressure is exceptional. I have witnessed her coordinate complex emergency scenes with a level of professionalism and calm that would be impressive in an officer with twice her experience...
I paused, thinking about the conversation Izzy had shared with me about Santoro's threats. She'd been so frustrated, so angry at the political games being played with her career. Jimmy's fingers hovered over the keyboard. Evans was a good man, a professional who would surely want to know if one of his officers was being undermined by political maneuvering. This was exactly the kind of information a fair-minded leader would need to make the right decision.
I feel compelled to share an incident that speaks to Lieutenant Delgado's character, though I know she would never bring this to your attention herself due to her professionalism. During a recent interaction, Lieutenant Mark Santoro approached her with what appeared to be veiled threats regarding her promotion prospects, suggesting that her "emotional" responses and "the company she keeps" might reflect poorly on her professional judgment. Rather than escalating the situation or filing a formal complaint, Lieutenant Delgado handled the matter with remarkable restraint and dignity.
I believe this incident demonstrates exactly why Lieutenant Delgado deserves advancement - she faces challenges that male officers rarely encounter, yet maintains her professionalism even when subjected to inappropriate political pressure. Her ability to focus on the mission rather than personal grievances shows the kind of leadership this department needs.
The letter continued with specific examples of her competence, her crew's loyalty, her technical expertise. By the time I finished, it felt like a bulletproof case for her promotion. Evans would have to be willfully blind not to see that Izzy was the best candidate for the job.
I wrote about the night she'd brought Cap to us, the way she'd advocated for him without ever crossing professional lines. I wrote about watching her crew respond to hercommands with absolute trust, the respect in their voices when they talked about their lieutenant. I wrote about her technical competence, her emotional intelligence, her ability to balance compassion with the kind of firm leadership that kept people alive.
What I didn't write about was the way she looked when she laughed at something stupid I'd said, or how she'd held me when I'd fallen apart after Lisa's death, or the careful way she'd told me about wanting children while watching my face for signs of rejection.
I didn't write about how she was the strongest person I'd ever known, and how that strength made my own weakness feel like a chasm I'd never be able to cross.
I sat back, satisfied that I'd given Evans the full picture. Surely a battalion chief would see Santoro's behavior for what it was — unprofessional intimidation that had no place in personnel decisions. Evans would appreciate Izzy's restraint and recognize that she was being held to an impossible standard.
When I finished, the letter was three pages long and probably the most honest thing I'd ever written. I attached it to an email addressed to Battalion Chief Evans, added a brief note explaining my professional relationship with Lieutenant Delgado through her mentor's medical care, and hit send before I could lose my nerve.
Then I sat back in my chair and waited for my heart to stop feeling like it was trying to beat its way out of my chest.
