Before starting the engine, my eyes drift, landing on her front door. The same place where we stood a few hours ago, neither of us quite ready to say goodnight.
I reach for my phone and type the message before I can talk myself out of it.
Me:
I wish I could see you before I leave for work, but I’m going in early for a 12-hour shift. I’ll be counting down the minutes until I get to kiss you again.
I hit send, set the phone down beside me, and start the truck.
The station is only a few minutes away, and the building comes into view just as the sky begins to shift from dark to that pale gray-blue that always comes right before sunrise.
I park the truck, grab my bag, and step inside, the familiar smell of coffee and diesel greeting me as soon as I walk through the bay.
A couple of the guys call out a quick good morning as I pass. I toss my bag into my locker, then make my way into the engine room to check the equipment while the rest of the crew moves around the bay, preparing for the day.
Everything feels lighter than usual.
Like something inside me finally settled into place.
We’ve already run a call by the time the morning settles into its normal rhythm, just a fender bender that didn’t require our assistance, and we’re heading back toward the station when my phone buzzes inside the pocket of my turnout pants.
I dig it out while the engine rolls down the street, my chest tightening just slightly when I see her name lighting up the screen.
May.
I open the message, and the second I read it, a slow grin spreads across my face.
May:
You should have woken me up.
For a moment, I sit there staring at the screen, leaning back against the seat with the ridiculous thought that maybe I should have.
God knows I wanted to.
The morning at the station moves as it usually does after a few early calls—gear checked, trucks cleaned up, coffee refilled more times than anyone wants to admit. Cruz and I are leaning against the workbench in the bay, arguing about what we should grab for lunch later, when the captain’s voice cuts across the room.
“Holloway. Cruz.”
Cruz and I both push off the workbench and straighten up.
“You’re needed.”
He walks toward us, holding a radio in one hand.
“Dispatch just got a call about a vessel drifting toward the rocks. Possible injured passenger onboard. You’ll be joining Estrada, Dinsmore, Baldonado, and Vo to stabilize the situation until the Coast Guard can get there.”
Lunch is forgotten the second the details sink in. My focus narrows to the job in front of us.
“The crew on duty is currently tied up assisting a vessel out near Otter Rock,” Captain Brewer continues. “And the Newport crew is out on a capsized boat, so this one’s ours until they can break free.”
Cruz and I exchange a quick look.
“Copy that,” I say.
We’re already moving before the captain finishes turning away.
Cruz heads toward the lockers while I grab the gear we keep ready for marine response calls. Not every department runs a marine unit, but along this stretch of coast, it comes with the territory. Fishing boats, charter tours, and tourists who underestimate the ocean. Calls like this come in often.
