"Thanks." The word comes out flat. Distant. Everything Vanessa used to complain about.
If Aiden notices, he doesn't show it. "You're gonna love it here. Town takes some getting used to—everyone knows everyone, which means everyone knows your business—but the people are good. Crew's solid." He nods to the assembled firefighters. "These guys will have your back."
"Good to know."
"Chief Rodriguez runs a tight ship, but she's fair. Best boss I've had." He leans in slightly, lowering his voice to conspiratorial levels. "Pro tip: Micah at Peak Grounds makes the best coffee in the state. Do not accept the station coffee unless you want your stomach lining to file for divorce."
Webb snorts. "Station coffee's not that bad."
"Webb, I've seen that coffee eat through a foam cup."
"That was ONE time."
The easy banter between them makes my chest tight. That used to be me with my crew. Before I became the captain who prioritized protocols over people, regulations over relationships. Before my crew started treating me like a necessary evil instead of a leader.
"Captain Delano?"
Chief Rodriguez rescues me from my spiral. "Your radio and gear are ready in the office. Let's get you set up."
Aiden offers a casual salute. "See you around, Beck. We should grab a beer sometime—there's a place called The Watershed that does a decent burger."
"Sure." Noncommittal. Safe. The kind of response that doesn't promise anything I can't deliver.
His smile doesn't falter, but something flickers in his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Of someone who keeps the world at arm's length because closer feels dangerous. He's met guys like me before—the ones who keep everyone at arm's length because getting close means getting hurt. Or he thinks I'm an asshole. Both could be true.
The office Chief Rodriguez leads me to is standard issue—desk, computer, filing cabinets, a window overlooking the mountains that probably inspired someone's moving brochure. Everything functional and impersonal, waiting for whoever occupies it to add the human touches that make a space feel lived-in.
"You'll share this with Gentry," she explains. "Different shift rotations, so scheduling conflicts should be minimal. Supply requests go through the department system, but I'm cc'd on everything. Questions?"
About a thousand, none of which have anything to do with fire suppression.
"I'm good."
"Excellent." She hands over a radio, surprisingly heavy with responsibility. "Your first shift starts next week. Until then, get settled. Learn the town. Let Ivy get comfortable." Her expression softens slightly. "Single parenting and a new job isn't easy. Station 7's family-oriented—we support each other. Don't hesitate to ask for help."
The kindness catches me off guard, lands somewhere uncomfortable. Asking for help requires admitting you need it, and admitting you need it requires acknowledging you're not fine.
Much easier to pretend everything's under control.
"Appreciated, Chief."
Back in the day room, Ivy has claimed an entire coloring table and created what appears to be a dinosaur battlescene across three separate pages. A very patient firefighter—Thompson, based on the gray at his temples—sits across from her, nodding seriously as she explains the tactical advantages of the ankylosaurus's tail club.
"And THAT'S why the stegosaurus is actually kind of overrated," Ivy concludes. "Everyone thinks the plates are cool but they're basically useless in combat."
"Never thought about it that way," Thompson admits. "You make a compelling argument."
Ivy beams. Converting people to her dinosaur theories—that's her favorite game.
"Time to go, bug."
"But Daddy, I'm explaining the IMPORTANT stuff about the Cretaceous period?—"
"Mr. Thompson probably has work to do."
Thompson stands, joints creaking in a way that speaks to years of physical labor. "Anytime you want to talk dinosaurs, Ivy, you know where to find me."
"REALLY?" Her volume could shatter glass. "Did you hear that, Daddy? I have a dinosaur friend now!"
