Press credentials layered over each other like badges of honor.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
You can do this.
You have to do this.
The drive to Engine 295 took forty-five minutes in morning traffic. My hands were steady on the wheel. My heart was not.
I turned on the radio. Turned it off.
Tried to focus on the case. The questions I'd ask. The angles I'd pursue. But my mind kept sliding sideways, back to where it always went when I let my guard down
The memory surfaced before I could stop it.
Sharp and vivid, the way old memories sometimes are. Preserved in amber while recent ones blur.
I was twenty-two when we first met.
A guy in a suit was berating the barista—something about a wrong order, his voice loud enough to make everyone uncomfortable. The kid behind the counter looked about nineteen and close to tears.
"Hey." I didn't realize I was going to say anything until I was already saying it. "It's coffee. Not a war crime. Maybe dial it back."
The suit turned, ready to redirect his anger. I held his gaze and didn't flinch.
"I'm sorry, is this your business?"
"It's everyone's business when you're making a scene."
Behind me, someone laughed. Low. Appreciative.
The suit puffed up, ready to escalate, but something over my shoulder made him reconsider. He muttered something about customer service and grabbed his coffee, shoving past me on his way out.
The barista exhaled. "Thank you. I'm not—he's been coming in all week and I?—"
"Don't apologize." I softened my voice. "People like that count on no one pushing back."
"She's right."
I turned.
Tall. Dark brown hair. Gray-blue eyes watching me with something that looked like amusement. Square jaw. Day-old stubble. FDNY t-shirt, slightly wrinkled, like he'd just come off a long shift.
"Most people just look at their phones when someone's being an ass," he said. "And pretend they don't notice."
The barista pushed a coffee toward me. "On the house. For, um. That."
I tried to refuse. The tall firefighter told the barista to put it on his tab. I told him that wasn't necessary. He shrugged.
"Consider it a thank-you from everyone who's ever wanted to tell a guy like that to shut up."
"I'm Garrett," he said. "Garrett Stone."
"Sloane Harper."
"Nice to meet you, Sloane Harper." He picked up his own coffee—black, no sugar, I noticed without meaning to. "For what it's worth? Your fire is kind of magnificent."
He was gone before I could respond.
