Six weeks since Marcus left. Six weeks since I’d found her on the kitchen floor, shaking and hollow-eyed, telling me about eleven years ending in a single conversation.
Six weeks.
The math wasn’t hard.
I kept showing up anyway. Saturdays like always. Sometimes during the week, when my shifts lined up just right. I brought groceries she forgot to buy. Fixed things that didn’t really need fixing. Sat with her in the kitchen while the clock ticked and the space between us filled with all the things neither of us was saying.
Maybe I was waiting for her to tell me in her own time. Maybe I was afraid of what would happen when she did.
Or maybe I just didn’t know how to ask without blowing everything open.
At the station, I was falling apart in ways I couldn't hide.
Tuesday morning drill, and I was half a step behind on everything. Missed the timing on the ladder truck deployment. Fumbled the coupling on a hose connection I'd done a thousand times. Moved through the exercises like my body was there, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.
It was. My mind was forty minutes away, in a white Victorian kitchen, watching a woman I'd known half my life slowly unravel.
Cal found me after, when the rest of the crew had dispersed to clean equipment and prep for the next shift. I was standing in the apparatus bay, staring at the engine without really seeing it, replaying the morning Grace had burned the cinnamon rolls because she'd been too busy throwing up to set the timer.
"Owen."
I turned. Cal was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that steady gaze fixed on me. The one that made you feel like he could see straight through to whatever you were hiding.
"Captain."
"You got a minute?"
It wasn't really a question. I followed him to the small office off the bay, the one that always smelled like coffee and paperwork. He closed the door behind us. Not a good sign.
"You good?" he asked.
"Fine."
Cal raised an eyebrow. "Try again."
I looked away. Through the window, I could see Murphy checking equipment, laughing at something Kowalski said. Normal. Easy. The kind of simple I used to be before everything got complicated.
"You've been off for weeks," Cal continued. "Since the wedding. Maybe before." He paused. "I'm not asking as your captain. I'm asking as someone who gives a damn."
"Just got a lot going on," I said finally.
"Want to talk about it?"
I thought about Grace. About the pregnancy I suspected but hadn't confirmed. About Sarah's voice still echoing in my head, telling me I was too available, too predictable, too easy to leave. About standing in Grace's kitchen week after week, watching her struggle, wanting to help but not knowing how.
"Not really."
Cal studied me for a long moment. I waited for him to push, the way I would have pushed if our positions were reversed.
He didn't.
"Alright," he said. "But whatever it is, you know we've got your back, yeah? That's what the crew is for. You don't have to carry everything alone."
Something shifted in my chest. A loosening I hadn't expected.
I'd spent my whole life being the one who showed up for others. The reliable one. The steady one. The one you called when things fell apart because you knew he'd be there, no questions asked. I'd built my identity around that. Built relationships around it. And lost those relationships when being needed wasn't the same as being wanted.
But Cal wasn't talking about needing me. He was talking about being there for me. The same way I tried to be there for everyone else.
