“She had the same 'I don't trust you but I'm going to give you a chance anyway' look."
Zoe snorted. But she didn't deny it.
After dinner, Zoe retreated to her room. Shane and I ended up on the couch—him with a beer, me with tea, a careful distance still between us.
"Got a call the other day," he said. "Kitchen fire in Woodside. A Small one. Grease fire that got out of control."
"Did anyone get hurt?"
"A lady burned her hand. Nothing serious. The real drama was the cat."
"The cat?"
"Persian. His name was Mr. Fluffington." Shane grinned. "He hid under the bed when the smoke started. We had to crawl under there to get him out. He was not happy about it at all."
I laughed. "Did Mr. Fluffington make it?"
"Mr. Fluffington is fine. He is very traumatized, though. Very judgmental about the whole rescue situation." Shane's grin softened. "The family was so relieved. The cat's been with them for fifteen years. Their kids grew up with him."
“That’s a lifetime,” I said.
"Yeah." He was quiet for a moment. "That's the part people don't see. The after. When everyone's safe, and you get to watch families hold each other. It makes up for the other calls."
"The bad ones?"
"There are always bad ones." His voice was steady, but something shifted in his eyes. "But that one wasn't one of them. That one was good."
The silence stretched.Why are you here?The question pressed against my throat.What do you want from me?
But I couldn't make myself ask. Because part of me already knew the answer: he was here because he wanted to be. Because he liked my daughter and my terrible coffee and my cramped apartment with its fixed faucet and its thirdhand furniture.
Because maybe, impossibly, he liked me.
And that was the terrifying part. That was the thing I couldn't let myself believe.
Because believing meant hoping. And hoping meant risk.
Shane finished his beer and stood. "I should head out. I have an early shift tomorrow."
"Of course."
I walked him to the door. He paused, hand on the frame, and I found myself staring at it. At the broad knuckles, the calluses from years of gripping hoses and axes and pulling people from burning buildings. His forearms were tan beneath the pushed-up sleeves of his Henley, corded with muscle, a faded scar running along the inside of his left wrist.
I wondered what those hands would feel like on my skin. The thought came unbidden, and I shoved it away, but not before heat crept up my neck.
For a second, I thought he might say something. Do something. Break the careful boundary he'd been honoring for weeks.
But he just smiled. "See you next Saturday?"
"Sure."
He left.
I watched him walk to the elevator, waited until the doors closed before I let out the breath I'd been holding.
Just friends.
He was keeping his word, showing up without pushing. Being present without demanding.
