Years ago, I used to tease her about it.
Now I stood outside the bathroom door and grinned like an idiot, grateful I got to hear it again.
She still stole my shirts. Every single FDNY t-shirt had migrated to her side of the closet. She wore them around the apartment like they belonged to her.
Which they did. They always had.
She still read in bed with a penlight because she didn't want to wake me, and she still fell asleep with the light on. I still woke up at 2am to turn it off, finding her with a book splayed across her chest and her mouth slightly open. Just like before.
All the small, ordinary moments that added up to a life.
I made coffee. Started breakfast. Listened to her footsteps in the bedroom, the creak of the floorboards, the shower turning on. The apartment filled with the smell of bacon and eggs and the muffled sound of her terrible singing.
This was what home sounded like.
For eight years, I'd forgotten.
I was never going to forget again.
Engine 295 was off the chopping block. Permanently.
Rodriguez called us together after morning drills. The common room went quiet the moment he walked in. Something in his face. That particular set to his jaw that meant news.
"I just got off the phone with the commissioner's office."
No one moved.
"The investigation into the corruption that nearly closed this house has resulted in multiple arrests and resignations." Rodriguez paused. Let each word land. "What you don't know is that the commissioner has been reviewing the documentation that made those arrests possible."
He looked at me across the room. Something shifted in his expression. Something that might have been pride.
"Stone. The commissioner wants to recognize you formally. For your years of documentation. For the work that exposed the corruption and kept this house open." He paused. "There's going to be a ceremony. Here, at the firehouse. Next week."
Silence.
Then Shane started clapping.
Brian joined in. Then Ortiz. Then Martinez. Then everyone, the whole crew on their feet, applauding like I'd done something heroic instead of just filing reports no one read.
"Alright, alright." Rodriguez held up a hand. The noise subsided, barely. "The ceremony is Thursday at 1400. Full dress uniforms. The commissioner will be here personally." He looked at me again. "Stone. Say something."
I'd never been good at this part. The attention. The recognition.
"I just did my job," I said.
"No." Rodriguez's voice was firm. "You did more than your job. You did what was right, even when no one was listening." He nodded once. "Thursday. Don't be late."
Shane clapped me on the shoulder. Brian pulled me into a hug that was more tackle than embrace.
But all I could think about was Sloane. About seeing her face when she heard.
Sloane got home at seven.
Her key in the lock. The familiar rhythm of it. The door opening. The thud of her bag hitting the floor.
The soft exhale she always made when she finally stopped moving.
I was at the stove, stirring the sauce. Nothing fancy. Pasta with marinara, garlic bread in the oven, a salad because she kept saying we needed to eat more vegetables.
