"She was inside."
Brian's grin faded. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know." He squeezed my shoulder. "You're still an idiot. A hero, but an idiot. Okonkwo's definitely writing you up."
"Worth it."
Brian shook his head. But he didn't let go of my shoulder. Garrett stood beside him, silent, steady. They'd come. Off-duty, middle of the night, no questions asked.
That's what brothers do.
I looked up. Across the chaos, through the crowd of first responders and the haze of smoke, Maya was looking at me.
Our eyes met.
She was crying. The oxygen mask fogged with each breath. Her face was streaked with soot and tears. She looked shattered. Not just from the fire—from everything. Tommy. The building. The last few days.
Us.
I took a step toward her. I didn't know what I was going to say. Didn't know if she'd let me say anything.
But before I could reach her, Maya looked away. Turned her head. Let the paramedics guide her toward the ambulance.
She didn't look back.
I stopped. Stood there in the parking lot, Brian's hand still on my shoulder, watching the ambulance doors close. Watching her disappear behind frosted glass.
She was alive. That's what mattered. That's all that mattered.
I'd run into fire for her. I'd do it again. I'd do it every day for the rest of my life, whether she wanted me to or not.
CHAPTER 18
Shane
Zoe arrivedwith Millie and her mom about twenty minutes after I called to update them.
Zoe's face was tear-streaked and terrified. She ran past me without seeing me and disappeared into Maya's room. Millie hesitated at the door, caught my eye, mouthedthank you, then followed her in.
I waited.
Hours passed. I'd been hoping one of them would come out to give me an update, to tell me something, anything. I wasn't close enough this time. The nurses wouldn’t tell me anything beyond “stable condition.”
Brian sat on the chair beside me, stretched his legs out like we had all night. Garrett leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the hallway with that quiet intensity he always carried.
Neither of them said anything about why I was still here. About why I was sitting in a hospital waiting room at two in the morning for a woman who'd ended things, who'd closed the door in my face, who wasn't my girlfriend or my family or anything I had a right to claim.
That's the thing about my crew.
They show up.
They don't need explanations.
Around midnight, Detective Diaz found us in the waiting room. She looked as exhausted as I felt, her jacket wrinkled, coffee cup in hand.
"Thought you'd want to know," she said, keeping her voice low. "The kid's talking. Tommy Vickers. He's been cooperating since they brought him in."
I sat up straighter. "What did he say?"
"The other schools were never random. He was working up to her. To Ms. Cummins." Diaz took a sip of her coffee. "Practice runs. Building his nerve. He told us he'd been watching her for months. Knew her schedule, knew she stayed late, knew which nights the building would be empty."
