The couch springs dig into my spine. The ceiling has a water stain shaped like Montana, which feels weirdly appropriate. Through the window, Clarence is still watching. I lift a hand in a weak wave. He blinks once—slow, deliberate—then jumps down and disappears.
My phone buzzes. Tasha again.
Tasha: You sure you're okay?
I look around at the trash bags, the milk crates, Kevin listing slightly to one side on the counter. The beige walls. The dry floor.
Me: Floor's dry. Ceiling's intact. I have a judgmental cat neighbor. Living the dream.
Tasha: That's my girl.
I close my eyes. Tomorrow I meet my landlord—the firefighter captain who presumably has his life together enough to own property.
Tonight, I'm just grateful I'm not standing in ankle-deep water.
Small victories.
Through the wall, I hear footsteps. A deep voice—male, muffled. Then a child's laugh, bright and sudden. My landlord has a kid. Great.
Nothing says 'temporary arrangement' like a kid asking questions I don't know how to answer.
I pull a trash bag over myself like a blanket and let exhaustion win.
Chapter 3
Beck
The realtor arranged childcare---Mrs. Delgado, a neighbor who apparently runs an informal daycare and bakes too much. Her house smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent.
Ivy's already claimed a spot on the floor with two other kids and a bucket of Legos by the time I've finished signing the emergency contact form.
Mrs. Delgado pats my arm. “She'll be fine, Captain. First day jitters are normal.”
My jaw tightens. “I'm fine.”
Her smile says she doesn't believe me.
I make it halfway to the station before the reality fully hits: there's a woman living in my house.
Not a stranger I invited, or vetted, or agreed to. A stranger who paid a deposit I never authorized, moved in last night while I was staring at the ceiling on my side of the wall, and is right now either sleeping or making coffee in a kitchen I've never seen.
I park my truck, sit there for a beat longer than I need to. My hands grip the steering wheel. A woman I've never met is living in my house. Sleeping under my roof.
The tension climbs my spine. I force my fingers to release the wheel and grab my gear. A full shift of firefights doesn’t wait for a man to sort out his domestic situation.
Station 7's day room smells like drip coffee and someone's ambitious chili---the kind that's been simmering since dawn and will either be amazing or a health code violation.
The coffee pot gurgles. Morning light slants through the windows, dust motes floating.
My shoulders tense. This is the moment---new captain walks in, crew decides if he's worth following or just another badge collecting a paycheck.
The floor creaks under my boots. Every head turns. The weight of their assessment settles across my shoulders like turnout gear.
Four of my crew are already at the long table. Kowalski's positioned himself at the head. Tran's on his phone, or pretending to be, Deluca's got two coffee mugs and seems genuinely torn about which one to drink. Reyes, the youngest, watches me cross the room—not aggressive, just waiting.
They all straighten when I reach the counter. A chorus of "Captain" comes back at me, polite and even, which tells me everything. They've done this before. Probably stood in this same room when Hendricks walked in for his first shift and ran the same calculation. New captain, unknown quantity, no verdict yet.
Chief Rodriguez catches me in the hallway before the morning brief. "Crew's tight," she says, watching my face. She's good at reading them. "They ran well under Hendricks. Just need to see you're not coming in to tear it down and rebuild it your way."
