Heat flooded my face. I blinked hard, fighting the sting behind my eyes. Anything I said would only feed it. Anything I did would make it worse.
Shane went very still. He looked down at me in his arms and growled loud enough for all of them to hear, "Are we still on for dinner tonight at seven, Ms. Cummins? I'd hate for a little bump to ruin our plans."
The room went silent.
Mrs. Patterson's laughter had died in her throat. The whispers had stopped. Every eye in the room was fixed on us, waiting.
I stared up at him, my heart slamming against my ribs. He met my gaze. I didn't know this man. I had never seen him before in my life. But he was looking at me like this was a plan, and I was already part of it.
Maybe it was the head injury. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I'd wake up any second now and find out I was still on the linoleum, dreaming about a stranger who'd defended my honor like something out of a movie.
"Seven?" I managed.
"We'll have to make a detour first." His voice was calm and steady. "I'm calling an ambulance. I could drive you myself, but head injuries are tricky. If something changes on the way, you're going to want paramedics with equipment, not just me and a truck."
"I can walk," I said, trying to push myself up.
"No." His hand pressed my shoulder back down. "You lost consciousness. You're staying down until the medics get here."
"Is that really necessary? I feel fine."
"The temple is the thinnest part of your skull. We don't gamble on head strikes." His voice was calm but left no room for argument. "You need a CT scan. It’s non-negotiable."
He lowered me gently to the floor, keeping one hand cradling the back of my head, and reached for his phone with the other.
"This is Shane Briggs, FDNY, off-duty," he said into the phone, his voice clipped and professional. "I need a bus at P.S. 147, 4502 Eighth Avenue, Sunset Park. Female, late twenties, blunt force trauma to the left temple, lost consciousness for roughly forty-five seconds. She's alert and responsive now, but I need a transport for a full neuro workup." He paused to listen to the dispatcher. "Copy that. We'll be at the main entrance."
He looked up, scanning the room until his eyes landed on Mrs. Patterson, who was still frozen by the supply cabinet.
"You," he said. "She's going to need coverage for the rest of the day. Go find the principal and make it happen."
Mrs. Patterson's mouth opened. Closed. For once in her life, she had nothing to say.
She left without a word.
The ambulance ride was a blur of fluorescent lights and questions I'd already answered three times. What's your name? Do you know where you are? Can you tell me what happened?
The ER was more of the same. Triage, intake forms, a curtained bay where a tech wheeled in a machine, and told me to hold still. The CT scan was quick but loud, and by the time they rolled me back to my curtain, my head was pounding in time with my heartbeat.
I closed my eyes, just for a second. When I opened them again, Shane was there. Still in his navy FDNY shirt, sitting in the chair beside my bed like he'd been there all along.
"I'm so sorry," I said.“You really didn’t have to come. I’ve already taken up enough of your day.”
"You didn't take anything." He leaned back in the chair, easy and unhurried. "I volunteered. And besides, this is a lot better than what I had planned."
I raised an eyebrow.
"Laundry," he said.
A laugh escaped before I could stop it, and I immediately winced. Laughing hurt.
"Lucky you were there, then." I shifted against the pillow, trying to find a position that didn't make my head throb. "What were you doing at the school anyway?"
"Dropping off materials for Fire Safety Week. Posters, some equipment for the demonstrations." He shrugged.
Before I could respond, a nurse pushed through the curtain, tablet in hand. "Ms. Cummins? Just need to verify a few things." She glanced at Shane's shirt, then back at me. "You must be the firefighter who called it in?"
"Her boyfriend, actually," Shane said.
