Quit your job. Become someone smaller.
I said no.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, razor frozen halfway down my jaw.
Why did that matter? Why was I cataloging every detail like evidence at a crime scene?
I knew why. I just didn't want to admit it.
I finished shaving. Got dressed. Went through the motions of starting my shift while my mind kept circling back to possibilities I shouldn't let myself consider.
Eight years. She'd been gone for eight years.
She'd left me waiting by a phone that never rang, writing letters that were never answered. Whatever we'd been, whatever we'd almost had—it was ancient history. Scar tissue. The kind of wound that healed wrong and ached when the weather changed.
But last night, sitting in her apartment surrounded by case files and takeout containers, it didn't feel like ancient history. It felt like picking up a conversation we'd paused mid-sentence.
I'll text you when I'm off shift.
I'd said it without thinking. The way I used to, back when checking in was just something we did. She'd smiled. Nodded.
She didn't say I didn't have to.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the door.
Keep it professional, Stone. She's here for the story. Nothing else.
Eight years. And it had taken less than a week to undo all of it.
Becks showed up just before lunch.
She came through the side door like she belonged there. Tupperware stacked in her arms, that same warm smile from her first visit already in place. Brown hair pulled back. Gray streaking the temples. A canvas tote bag over one shoulder, printed with a farmers market logo.
"I made too much again," she said, setting the containers on the common room table. "Chicken parm this time. And I brought garlic bread because last time someone"—she pointed at Brian without looking—"ate the lasagna with his hands."
Brian grinned. "It was hot. I was improvising."
"You were an animal," Shane said, already reaching for a plate.
She'd been coming around weekly now. Three visits, maybe four. Always with food, always with that easy, neighborhood-auntie energy that made the guys relax around her.
Rodriguez had cleared her after the first visit, just a local who wanted to feed the crew. It happened more than people realized. Communities adopted their firehouses.
The crew gathered around the table. Becks moved through the kitchen like she'd been there a hundred times, pulling napkins from the dispenser, filling a water pitcher without being asked.
She knew where things were.
I sat at the edge of the group, plate balanced on my knee, and checked my phone.
Nothing from Sloane. I set it facedown on the bench beside me.
Thirty seconds later, I picked it up again.
"You've checked your phone three times in the last ten minutes."
Brian's voice cut through my thoughts.
I looked up from the chicken parm I'd barely touched, found him watching me with an expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement.
