He left me sitting there with those words hanging in the air like smoke from a structure fire — invisible but toxic, seeping into everything and making it hard to breathe.
That night,I sat alone in my office after the shift had ended, staring at the framed photo of Cap that sat on my desk. It had been taken at last year's department picnic, back when he was still healthy, still laughing, still the anchor that kept me grounded.
In the photo, he was telling some story to a group of younger firefighters, his hands animated, his face bright with the joy of sharing hard-won wisdom. That was who he'd been — a teacher, a mentor, a man who built people up instead of tearing them down.
I felt the grief rise in my chest, sharp and sudden, threatening to crack the wall I'd built. For just a moment, I wanted to let it out, to cry for the man I'd lost and the woman I used to be. But I pushed it down, locked it away with everything else I couldn't afford to feel.
Emotions were weakness. Caring too much was what had cost me everything — my promotion, my relationship, my future. The only way to survive was to be perfect, untouchable, professionally flawless.
But as I sat there in the empty station, surrounded by the equipment and traditions that had once felt like home, I couldn't shake Benny's words.
We used to want to follow you. Now we just have to.
I told myself it didn't matter. Leadership wasn't about being liked — it was about being effective. My crew would follow my orders because they were good orders, tactically sound and professionally appropriate. Their feelings about it were irrelevant.
But even as I told myself these things, even as I reinforced the wall that kept me safe and isolated, I couldn't quite silence the voice in the back of my mind that sounded suspiciously like Cap.
Be brave enough to keep your heart open. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
I pushed the voice away and focused on my paperwork. Hearts were fragile things, easily broken. Walls were stronger. Walls lasted.
Even if they kept everyone else out.
chapter
thirty-two
The automatic doorsof Metro General slid open with their familiar whisper, and I stepped into the controlled chaos of shift change. The fluorescent lights felt harsher than usual, cutting through the exhaustion that had become my constant companion. I'd picked up this call shift because the alternative — sitting alone in my apartment, staring at walls that still held echoes of Izzy's laughter — was unbearable.
The elevator ride to the ER felt endless. Almost two months now since Cap's funeral. Since I'd watched the strongest woman I'd ever known look at me like I was a stranger who'd destroyed her life. Three weeks of perfect, hollow competence that left me feeling like a ghost haunting my own existence.
The elevator dinged, and I stepped out into the familiar chaos of the emergency department. But something was off. Sophia was standing at the nurses' station with Carly, both charge nurses looking up as I approached with expressions I couldn't quite read.
"Oh, gosh, Jimmy," Sophia said, her voice carrying a note of apologetic surprise that didn't quite ring true. "My mistake. We double-scheduled tonight. We don't actually need you."
I stopped walking, my exhausted brain struggling to process what she was saying. "What?"
"I know, I know. Total screwup on our part." She exchanged a glance with Carly that lasted a fraction of a second too long. "We'll pay out your call-time anyway since it's our fault. Sorry you drove all the way in for nothing."
The disappointment almost shattered me, desperation rising in my chest. The prospect of twelve hours of methodical, mind-numbing work had been the only thing getting me through the day. Now I'd have to go home, back to the silence and the memories and the constant replay of every mistake I'd made.
"Are you sure?" I asked, hearing the desperation in my own voice. "I could work anyway, help out with — "
"We're fully staffed for tonight," Carly said firmly. "Go home. Get some rest."
I nodded numbly, turned around, and headed back toward the elevator. Behind me, I caught a fragment of whispered conversation between Sophia and Carly, something about "had to try", but the words felt distant and unimportant.
The parking garage was dimly lit and mostly empty, my footsteps echoing off concrete walls as I made my way toward my car. All I wanted was to get home, maybe drink myself into unconsciousness, anything to stop the endless cycle of self-recrimination that had become my default state.
"Dalton."
The voice cut through the silence like a blade. I turned to see Kellen standing beside a beat-up Chevy Silverado, his expression as unreadable as ever. He was wearing a zipped hoodie and navy blue EMS-style cargo pants.
"You're coming with me," he said. Not a request. Not a suggestion. A statement of fact delivered in that flat, emotionless tone that was his bread and butter.
I staredat him, too tired to be surprised, too hollow to argue. "What? Where?"
"Just get in the truck, Dalton."
