I didn't try to win her over. Didn't crack jokes or put on a show. I just ate my lo mein and answered Maya's questions and let the awkwardness be what it was.
Some things you couldn't rush. Trust was one of them.
After dinner, Zoe retreated to her room with a pointed "Nice to meet you" that sounded more like a warning than a pleasantry. The door closed behind her with a definitive click.
Maya and I looked at each other.
"She's protective," Maya said. "She doesn't warm up to people quickly."
"She shouldn't. She's smart."
Something flickered in Maya's expression. Surprise, maybe. Like she'd expected me to be offended.
We moved to the couch. The apartment was quiet except for the muffled sound of music from Zoe's room. The space felt smaller now. More intimate.
"Can I ask you something?" Maya said.
"Anything."
"Why did you become a firefighter?"
I leaned back, considering the question. Most people asked it as small talk, expecting a simple answer.I wanted to help people. It runs in the family. The benefits are good.
But Maya was looking at me like she actually wanted to know.
"My dad," I said finally. "He was a firefighter. Engine 54, Manhattan. Thirty years on the job before he retired." I paused, the familiar ache settling in my chest. "He died of cancer. The kind that comes from breathing in too much smoke over too many years."
Maya's face softened. "I'm sorry."
"He loved the job. Even knowing what it cost him, he never regretted it." I looked down at my hands. "I wanted to understand why someone would give everything to something that was slowly killing them. And then I started, and I got it. The brotherhood. The purpose. Knowing that when everything goes wrong, you're the one people call." I shrugged. "It's the only thing that's ever made sense to me."
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "That's how I feel about teaching."
"Yeah?"
"The kids who need someone in their corner. The ones everyone else has given up on." Her voice was tired but fierce. "Someone has to fight for them. Someone has to show up every single day, even when it's exhausting. Even when the system is broken. Even when—" She stopped, shook her head. "Sorry. I get intense about this."
"Don't apologize." I held her gaze. "I like intense."
She looked away, but not before I caught the flush creeping up her neck.
We talked for another hour. About her students, about my crew. About the parts of ourselves we didn't usually show to anyone. She told me about Destiny, the girl with the broken zipper who wanted to research foster care. I told her about the kid I couldn't save in Astoria, the one who still showed up in my nightmares sometimes.
I found myself saying things I never said. Things I usually kept locked away, buried under charm and deflection and the easy smile that kept everyone at arm's length.
With Maya, I didn't want to keep her at arm's length.
That was new. That was terrifying.
Most of my relationships, if you could even call them that, had been surface-level. Women who wanted the firefighter from the calendar, the hero from the headlines. I'd let them see exactly what they expected, and nothing more.
But Maya wasn't looking at me like I was a fantasy. She was looking at me like I was a person. Complicated. Flawed. Real.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn't want to be anything else. I didn't want to perform or charm or deflect. I just wanted to be the guy she was looking at.
That was new. And terrifying in a way I didn’t know how to handle.
When there was nothing left to say, I helped clear the dishes.
