Chapter 12
Cole
The kitchen fire at Bernie’s Diner is out before we even get the hoses connected.
Small grease fire. The employee panicked and threw water on it instead of using the extinguisher mounted three feet away. Classic mistake. We ventilate the smoke, check for extension into the walls, and give the owner a lecture about kitchen safety protocols.
Routine call. In and out in forty minutes.
But my head’s not in it.
I’m going through the motions—checking hot spots, documenting the scene, making sure nothing’s smoldering that could reignite later. Exactly how I’ve been doing this job for ten years.
Except I keep thinking about Rachel.
About the rooftop. About the way she looked at me in the dark with her walls completely down. About how she felt in my arms, trusting me with something I’m not sure I deserve.
“Lieutenant?” Garcia’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “We’re clear to pack up.”
“Right. Yeah. Good work.” I strip off my gloves. “Let’s head back.”
The ride to Station 47 is quiet. The crew’s tired. It’s been a long shift—three calls since six a.m., and we’ve still got two hours left before the next team takes over.
Back at the station, I log the incident report and make sure everything is in its place. Everything accounted for. Order and routine. The things that keep me steady when everything else feels like it’s tilting sideways.
My phone buzzes—text from Jake.
You still have my torque wrench? Need it this weekend for the truck.
I stare at the message. The wrench is in my toolbox at home. Has been for three weeks.
I type back:Yeah, I’ll drop it off after my shift.
His response is immediate:Thanks. I’ll be at work until 6, but Rachel’s home.
Rachel’s home.
I pocket my phone and finish my shift on autopilot.
I’m driving past Main Street when I see the toy store.
Miller’s Toys. Been there since I was a kid. Same faded awning, same window displays that probably haven’t changed in twenty years.
I pull into the parking lot.
The store smells like plastic and nostalgia. An older woman at the counter looks up when I walk in.
“Help you find something?”
“Just browsing.”
I wander down the aisles, not sure what I’m looking for. Action figures. Board games. Stuffed animals that look like they’ve been sitting on those shelves since the nineties.
Then I see it.
Fire truck. Red and yellow, lights that actually work, a ladder that extends. The kind of toy I would’ve lost my mind over when I was five.
The kind of toy Tommy would love.
