“LilyFinnigan?” Diaz asks, his expression serious.
“I didn’t get a first name,” I admit. “Blonde, hazel eyes, could intimidate a charging bull with a look?”
“That’s her.” Brett nods. “Lily Finnigan. Why do you ask about her?”
I give the worst impression of a nonchalant shrug. “No reason.”
My squad mates don’t seem to buy into my reply.
Diaz gives me a long stare, but eventually tells me, “She’s one of our own. Daniel Finnigan’s widow.”
The name rings a bell. He was the lieutenant before last, killed in a warehouse fire four years ago. The story came up during my onboarding, spoken with the reverent tone reserved for fallen brothers.
“They’ve got a little girl, too,” Diaz adds, lowering his voice.
Her reaction makes perfect sense now—the pain in her eyes when she looked at me, the way she tensed when I mentioned being a lieutenant at Station 27.
“I didn’t know,” I mumble.
“She’s good people,” Martinez says as we head toward the exit. “But she’s been through hell.”
I glance back at the ER doors, picturing her steady hands and guarded eyes, the grief she carries so carefully it’s almost invisible.
Respect, curiosity, and yes, attraction pulse in my belly.
“Come on, Lieutenant,” Diaz says, clapping me on my good shoulder. “The chief wants us back at the station for debriefing.”
Walking to the truck, I half-wish for a reason to see her again. A torn stitch or pus. I’d even brave an infection to catch another moment with Nurse Finnigan. It’s an unnatural thought for a firefighter—craving an injury—one I never had before.
Today has been a day of firsts, but, fingers crossed, not lasts.
3
LILY
On Friday night, the hospital’s automatic doors hiss behind me and close fast like they’re glad to see me leave. The feeling is mutual. Today was hectic. Three back-to-back traumas, one code blue, and more broken bones than the last four shifts combined. My scrubs reek of industrial-strength disinfectant. I was too tired to switch back to regular clothes before I showered. I want to go home, clean up, and change straight into my PJs. The only thing keeping me vertical is the promise of my empty apartment, where I can face-plant onto my couch and not move until Monday.
Friday. Blessed, beautiful Friday. The day when normal people celebrate the weekend, and single moms like me savor temporary child abandonment—the legal, loving kind where my daughter spends quality time with her aunt while I remember the sound of silence.
After a mercifully unclogged drive home, I fumble with my keys at my apartment door, the weight of the day making even this simple task feel like I’m performing neurosurgery with oven mitts. The lock gives, and I stumble inside, kicking off my shoes after too many hours on my feet.
“Hello, freedom,” I whisper to the emptiness, dropping my bag with a thud that echoes pleasantly through the rooms. No immediate demands for snacks or requests to check homework I’m too tired to understand. No Disney soundtrack blaring. Just me, my couch, and the promise of takeout food I won’t have to cook. But first, a scorching-hot shower to wash the day away.
That quiet-night-in fantasy breaks as I take two steps toward the bathroom and hear the unmistakable drip-drip-drip of water leaking from somewhere.
“No,” I mutter, running down the hall as a tired anxiety congeals in my stomach. “Not on my freedom Friday.”
But the universe has never been concerned with my schedule. I flip on the bathroom light and find a pool creeping across the tiles, seeping from beneath the sink.
“Unbelievable.” I drop to my knees and open the cabinet door, only to be greeted by a spray to the face. I sputter and slam it shut again, water dripping from my chin.
I’m screwed. Mr. Hagerty, our housing complex’s superintendent, will show up sometime next week, fiddle with the pipes for fifteen minutes, declare it fixed, and then I’ll be dealing with the same issue in a month. His approach to maintenance involves duct tape, prayers, and the firm belief that if he ignores a problem long enough, it’ll fix itself.
My apartment is in one of those Spanish-style buildings that are so common in LA with peach stucco walls and terracotta tiles, a courtyard, central pool, and wrought-iron balconies stuffed with potted succulents that compensate for the building’s flakey servicing. I love the character, the high ceilings, and the way the afternoon sun filters through my windows. But I could do without Mr. Hagerty’s upkeep philosophy:If it ain’t disintegrated, don’t fix it.
I dash into the service room and close the water shut-off valve, using the wrench I keep stashed for emergencies. I toss the tool aside and slop to the floor, grieving the hot shower I won’t be able to take tonight. If I forsake personal hygiene, can I pretend my bathroom isn’t a swamp and sleep before I deal with the mess? No, not really.
I haul myself up, grab every towel from the linen closet, and fling them across the spreading puddle. They get soaked through in seconds.
