I leaned forward, resting my head on his chest, feeling the uneven rhythm of his heart beneath my cheek. His hand came up to stroke my hair with the same gentle touch he'd usedwhen I was a rookie, when I'd come to him broken and scared after a bad call.
"I love you," I whispered against his chest. "Thank you for everything. Thank you for taking care of me."
I felt his lips press against the top of my head, so soft I might have imagined it.
At 7:23 a.m., Michael O'Sullivan took his last breath. The silence that followed was profound and terrible … the absence of sound after a lifetime of presence. Margaret's quiet sobs, the flatline tone of the heart monitor that seemed to go on forever before someone mercifully turned it off, and underneath it all, the hollow echo of another piece of my world crumbling away.
I stayed where I was for a long moment, my head on his still chest, feeling the warmth slowly leave his body. This was the end, the closing of a chapter that had defined my entire adult life. When I finally sat up, I felt something fundamental shift inside me — not breaking, but hardening. Crystallizing into something colder and more impenetrable than anything I'd built before.
The hours that followed blurred together in a haze of necessary tasks. Paperwork. Phone calls. Margaret's endless, heartbroken tears that I absorbed while staying dry-eyed myself. I called Thompson first, knowing he'd handle telling the rest of the crew with the right mixture of respect and practicality.
"Aw, fuck," Thompson said when I told him, his voice rough with emotion. "How's Margaret? How are you?"
"We're managing," I said, the lie coming easily. "I need you to coordinate with the Honor Guard. Full department funeral. He earned it."
"Copy that, L.T. Anything you need, anything at all —"
"Just take care of the crew. They're going to take this hard."
My phone buzzed constantly — texts from colleagues, from other departments, from firefighters across the region who'd known Cap. I answered them mechanically, professionally, my responses growing shorter and more formal with each one.
Martinez
L.T., just heard about Cap. I'm so sorry. He was the best of us.
Thank you. Funeral arrangements TBD.
Benny
Kiddo, you know we're here for you. Cap would want us taking care of you.
I'm fine. Focus on the arrangements.
Rodriguez (Truck 12)
Heard about Cap. Whole department's gonna miss him. You hanging in there?
Managing. Thank you.
My mother called around noon, her voice thick with sympathy. "Mija, I just heard. I'm so sorry. Michael was a good man."
"Yes, he was."
"Do you want me to come up? I could drive up today, help with whatever you need — "
"I'm fine, Mom. Thank you."
"Izzy, you don't have to be strong all the time. It's okay to — "
"I have arrangements to make," I cut her off. "I'll call you with the funeral details."
I hung up before she could respond, before her kindness could crack the wall I was building brick by careful brick.
Jimmy texted throughout the day, his messages growing more worried as my responses grew more distant.
Jimmy
Thompson called. I'm so sorry about Cap. I know how much he meant to you.
