Page 50 of Honeyfires

When it was time to leave, the crew said goodbye to Vera the way they said goodbye to someone who had always been coming.

Stevens extracted a promise she'd return. Jackson sent a calendar invite for the baking afternoon before she'd finished agreeing. Rodriguez shook her hand at the bay door—a different grip than the first one, something settled in it now.

"Take care of her," he said to me.

"Yes, sir."

He looked at Vera. "And you take care of our Alves. She doesn't let many people in. Don't waste that."

Vera met his eyes without flinching. "I don't intend to."

He nodded, satisfied, and went back inside.

Then Miller appeared at the bay door. He held out his personal mug—the specific, labeled mug that no one touched, a fact made clear to every new crew member in their first week—and pointed her toward the coffee station.

"Top shelf," he said. "The good beans."

Vera poured a cup, took a sip. Her eyes went wide. "This is extraordinary."

"Single origin. A ranch in Oaxaca." He took the mug back. "Rodriguez keeps buying the cheap stuff."

"I'll bring you a bag of something good next time I come."

Miller looked at her for a moment. "Okay," he said, and I was almost certain there was something in his tone that qualified as warmth.

We walked to the parking lot together, Vera's hand in mine, the afternoon heat golden and settling over the scrubland. The Bell 212 gleamed on the helipad.

Vera stopped and looked at her one last time.

"La Jefa," she said.

"The Boss."

"I like her." She squeezed my hand. "I still find the whole thing terrifying."

"I know."

"But I like her." She turned to look at me. "What did Rodriguez actually say to you? When you were by the engine."

"He told me not to screw it up. Said it was an order."

She laughed, real and deep, her eyes crinkling in the afternoon light. "I like him so much."

"He invited you into the municipal budget conversation. He's never done that with anyone."

"He's worried about discretionary spending under the new administration. It's a legitimate concern." She started walking, pulling me with her. "Come on, firefighter. Take me home. I want to sit on your motorcycle in the parking lot and have you teach me things."

"About the engine," I said.

"About the engine." She glanced back at me. "Probably, anyway."

I shook my head. She grinned. The desert stretched out hot and golden in every direction, and behind us, through the open bay door, Stevens was telling Jackson he was absolutely going to the baking afternoon.

I was also going to the baking afternoon. There was no version of my life in which I wasn't.

Later that evening, she found me in the parking lot wiping down the motorcycle.

"Teaching moment?" She came up beside me, shoulder nudging mine.