CHAPTER 12
Cal
The crib came in pieces.Forty-seven of them, according to the instruction manual, which was written in a font so small I had to squint to read it.
Assembly time: approximately two hours.
It was past midnight. Gabrielle had been home for less than twelve hours, and Owen and I had been at this for three.
He'd shown up without being asked. That was Owen's way. He'd been at the station when someone left Gabrielle at the door, had watched me bundle her up and drive her to Lucy at the café. By the time we came back from the hospital, he was already there with his toolbox and a bag of takeout.
"Figured you'd need an extra set of hands," he'd said. No questions about why I was spending my off-hours assembling furniture for my neighbor. Noraised eyebrows or knowing looks. Just Owen, steady and solid, ready to help.
Lucy's apartment was quiet except for the soft sounds coming from the bedroom. Her voice, low and gentle, singing something I couldn't quite make out. Gabrielle had been fussy all evening, that particular newborn cry that meant nothing was wrong except everything was new and overwhelming. Lucy had taken her into the bedroom an hour ago, and gradually the crying had faded to whimpers, then to silence.
Owen held slat A in place while I fitted it into bracket B. We worked in comfortable silence, the kind that came from years of moving together on calls, anticipating each other's needs without having to speak.
Riley had dropped off supplies earlier. Showed up at the door with two bags full of diapers, formula, onesies, and a pack-and-play that she'd "borrowed" from the station's community closet. Liam had followed with more bags of blankets, bottles, and a stuffed elephant that someone had grabbed from somewhere.
"The crew wanted to help," Riley had said, like it was nothing. Like the entire B-shift hadn't pooled their resources within hours of hearing the news.
That was the thing about firefighters, but about this crew in particular. When one of us needed something, the rest showed up. No questions. No hesitation. Just hands reaching out to help carry the weight.
Owen passed me a screw without my asking. I tightened it, checked the alignment, moved on to the next one.
From the bedroom, I heard Lucy's voice again. Still singing, soft and sweet. Something about stars and sleep and dreams. A lullaby, probably. Something her mother had sung to her.
Owen heard it too. His hands paused on the wood.
"She seems good," he said quietly. "With the baby."
"She is."
A beat of silence. Owen wasn't the type to pry, but I could feel the question in the air between us.
"You're good with her too," he added. Not quite a question. Not quite a statement. Just an observation, offered without judgment.
I didn't answer. Didn't know how.
This is what it would feel like.
The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. A family. A life. Coming home to someone, to the sound of lullabies and the weight of a baby in your arms. Building something together, piece by piece, the way I was building this crib. Something solid. Something that would last. Something to rest, in this case: my heart and my head.
Everything I'd never let myself want.
Owen handed me another screw. We kept working.
By the time we finished, it was almost 4 AM. The crib stood in the corner of Lucy's living room, sturdyand solid, ready for a baby who was finally sleeping in her mother's arms.
Owen gathered his tools and clapped me on the shoulder once.
"Get some sleep, Cal," he tried to advise me. "You look like you need it."
He let himself out. I stood there looking at the crib for a long moment, at this thing we'd built together for a baby who wasn't mine, in an apartment that wasn't mine, for a woman who was becoming everything to me.
Then I grabbed my jacket and let myself out, quiet as I could.
I didn't trust myself enough to stay.
