I forgot what breathing is supposed to feel like.
Then Gemma steps back. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and it's not from the hot water.
"Thanks for dinner, Captain," she says.
Her voice comes out softer than usual. Breathier.
I want to say something real. Something honest.I make you coffee because I like knowing you're thinking about me when you drink it. I time your arrival home because those few minutes of knowing you're close are the best part of my day. Dinner was terrifyingly easy and that terrifies me even more than the fire on Birch Street. I haven't felt this comfortable with another person since before my marriage fell apart, and I have no idea what to do with that.
What comes out is: "Anytime."
She smiles like she heard what I didn't say. She dries her hands on the dish towel, sets it carefully on the counter, and leaves. Clarence trails behind her, shooting me one last judgmental look before disappearing through her door.
I stand at the sink until the water goes cold, staring at nothing. My hands are still in the dishwater, pruning. The bubbles have dissolved, leaving just grey water and a few floating bits of basil.
Through the wall, I hear Gemma's door close. Her footsteps moving through her suite. The sound of her turning on music---something soft and acoustic that I can't quite make out through the drywall.
She's right there. Ten feet away through plaster and wood.
Might as well be miles.
Clarence comes back ten minutes later. I hear the soft thud of him jumping through the living room window I apparently left open. He walks into my kitchen, sits in the middle of the floor, and fixes me with those unblinking eyes.
"What?" I demand, finally pulling my hands out of the cold water and drying them on the dish towel. "And how long have you been using that window?"
The cat's expression says everything:Pathetic.
I can't argue with him.
He's right.
Chapter 10
Beck
Clarence is still watching me from the kitchen window when I leave for shift, which means I drive to Station 7 already feeling judged, which means I'm in the right frame of mind when Aiden finds me in the apparatus bay and announces, with the enthusiasm of someone who considers volunteering other people a public service, that today is my lucky day.
"Chief Rodriguez approved the social media push," he says, leaning against Engine 7 with his arms crossed, grinning like he's about to hand me something I never asked for. "Fire safety content. Community engagement. Very on-brand for the department."
"Good," I say. "Someone else do it."
"Beck." His grin gets wider. "Buddy. My guy."
"No."
"You're the captain."
"So are you."
"C-shift captain," Aiden says, unbothered. "Different shift, different jurisdiction. Today you're the talent."
"Which means I assign tasks. Not perform them."
"Which means," he counters, unaffected, "that when Chief Rodriguez personally suggests that the new captain's face would be great for community outreach, you smile and say yes, because she's our boss and she runs a very tight ship and you have been here long enough to know that."
I stare at him.
He stares back, still smiling.
