"No medical issues," he said carefully. "Just checking. Some of the other crews have mentioned that Station 2 seems... different lately. Thought I'd see if you needed anything."
"We don't." I turned back to my paperwork, making it clear the conversation was over. "Thank you for your concern."
Jack stood there for a moment, clearly debating whether to push further. "Izzy — "
"LieutenantDelgado," I corrected without looking up.
"Right. Lieutenant. Look, I know you've been through a lot lately, with Cap and everything. If you ever need to talk — "
"I don't." My voice was ice. "Is there anything else, Medic McKenzie?"
Jack's expression shifted from concern to something that looked like pity. "No. Nothing else."
He walked away, and I felt a small stab of satisfaction. Another boundary established, another relationship moved to safe, professional distance. It was better this way. Cleaner.
I didn't need Jack's concern or Thompson's worry or Martinez's confused hurt. I needed them to do their jobs with the same mechanical precision I brought to mine. Feelings were a luxury I could no longer afford.
Back at the station, the atmosphere was toxic in a way I'd never experienced before. My crew went about their post-call duties with grim efficiency, but the easy banter that usually followed a good stop was absent. They cleaned equipment in silence, checked inventory without their usual complaints about missing supplies, and avoided making eye contact with me whenever possible.
Benny found me in my office an hour later, his weathered face creased with worry.
"Kiddo," he started, then caught himself. "L.T., can we talk?"
I looked up from the incident report I was reviewing for the third time. "What is it, Firefighter Carter?"
The formal address stung him, I could tell. Benny had known me since I was a rookie, had worked with my father, had earned the right to call me "kiddo" through years of loyalty and quiet wisdom. Reducing him to his rank and last name was cruel, and we both knew it.
"Is there an issue with an order?" I continued when he didn't immediately respond.
"No, ma'am," he said quietly. "No issues."
But he didn't leave. He stood there in my doorway,looking at me with the kind of patient concern he'd shown when I was a scared rookie making mistakes.
"Benny, was there something else?"
"Just... you sure you're okay? You seem different since..."
"Since what?"
"Since the funeral. Since Cap." His voice was gentle, careful. "We're worried about you."
The kindness in his voice almost cracked something inside me, but I pushed it down, locked it away behind the wall that kept me safe.
"I'm fine," I said. "Better than fine. I'm focused."
"Maybe too focused," Benny said quietly.
"Is there a problem with my performance, Firefighter Carter?"
He flinched at the formal address again, but didn't back down. "No. Your performance is perfect. That's the problem."
"I don't understand."
"L.T., the boys are spooked. They'll follow you into hell, you know that. But they're losing confidence. Not in your orders, but in themselves. You used to be one of us. Now you're just our boss." His voice carried twenty years of experience, two decades of watching officers come and go. "There's a difference."
I stared at him, feeling nothing but cold certainty. "The difference is professionalism. The difference is focus. The difference is not letting personal feelings interfere with operational effectiveness."
"The difference," Benny said sadly, "is that we used towantto follow you. Now we justhaveto."
