Page 97 of Honeyfires

"I can work with them fine." My jaw tightened. "Can they work with me?"

"That's what I'm asking you to find out." He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and I could see the concern etched into his hardened features, not for the crew dynamics, but for what might happen when those dynamics fractured in the field. "We can't have tension in the crew. Not when lives are on the line. You know this, Alves. I've seen you lead teams through hell. You're one of the best crew forewomen or men or fore-non-binary person, whatever, that this station has ever seen. But right now, there's a crack in this unit, and we need to seal it before fire season hits full force."

He was right. God damn it, he was right, and I hated it. In a fire, we had to trust each other completely, had to know without question that the person on the other end of the radio would be there, would have your back, would make the hard calls without hesitation. If Davids and Emerson couldn't trust me, or I couldn't trust them... if someone hesitated for even a second because of resentment or wounded pride or because they were thinking about the barbecue instead of the flames...

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer, already felt the weight of what he was asking settling onto me like a loaded gun in my fucking face.

"Talk to them. Clear the air. Find a way forward." He sighed, and suddenly he looked older, worn down by years of balancing crew dynamics with life-and-death situations. "I know it's not fair. They're the ones who fucked up. But you're my crew forewoman. Leadership means sometimes swallowing your pride for the good of the team."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that I hadn't done anything wrong, that asking me to smooth things over was asking me to shoulder responsibility for their disrespect, their objectification, their complete lack of basic human decency toward the woman I loved. But Rodriguez was right about one thing. Leadership meant making hard choices. It meant putting the team first, even when it burned.

"I'll handle it," I said finally. "But I won't apologize. I won't pretend that what they said was acceptable, and I won't back down. If they can't respect Vera, they need to at least respect that she's off-limits in locker room talk.”

"That's all I'm asking." He nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I know you'll do right by the crew, Alves. That's why you're sitting in that chair."

I found Davids alone in the gear room two days later, restocking medical supplies, his movements efficient and practiced. Boxes of gauze, packages of bandages, bottles of antiseptic lined up on the shelves with the meticulous care of someone who’d served in the military and actually understood order. My stomach churned as I pushed through the door, but I forced myself forward. This conversation needed to happen, even if every instinct I had was screaming at me to avoid it.

"We got a problem?"

He didn't look up, his hands continuing their methodical work. "Nope. No problem."

"Bullshit. You haven't said two words to me in a week." I moved closer, not crowding him but making it clear I wasn't leaving until this was settled. "Actually looked at me even less."

His hands stilled on a box of gauze, his shoulders tensing. The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable, heavy with everything unsaid. I could hear the distant sounds of the station. Stevens laughing at something in the common room, the mechanical hum of the refrigerator, the creak of the building settling in the afternoon heat.

"Look at me," I said quietly, and it wasn't a request.

He finally turned, and the anger on his face was unmistakable. Raw and immediate, burning in his eyes like a fire that had been smoldering for days. His jaw tightened, hands clenched at his sides.

"You embarrassed me," he growled out. "In front of everyone. Made me look like an asshole in front of my girlfriend, in front of Cap, in front of the whole fucking crew."

"You made yourself look like an asshole. I just called you on it." I kept my voice level, but I could feel heat rising in my chest, my anger matching his. "You want to talk about embarrassment? Try being Vera, hearing grown men talk about her body like she's not a person. Like she's just tits and ass for you to comment on."

"We all talk like that. It's just how guys are." He threw the gauze into the cabinet harder than necessary, the packages scattering. "It doesn't mean anything. It's just bullshitting, just—"

"Not about Vera." The words came out sharp and final. "Never about her. That's the line, Davids. That's the one thing that's non-negotiable."

"So what, you get a girlfriend and suddenly you're above the rest of us? Too good for locker room talk?" He turned fully now, facing me, and I could see the resentment etched into every line of his face. "You used to laugh at this shit. We all did. But now you've got some pretty little librarian and suddenly we're all sexist pigs?"

The implication hung in the air between us, fully accusatory. You're different now. You've changed. You chose her over us. You're not one of the guys anymore.

"This isn't about being too good. It's about basic fucking respect." I took a step closer, and he didn't back down. "You want to talk shit about random women, women you don't know, women who aren't in your life? Fine. I don't agree with it, but I'm not your mother. But Vera? She's done nothing to you. She's a good fucking person. And she's the one I go home to, the one I'm building a life with. And yeah, that changes things. Because now it's not abstract. It's real. It's the woman I love that you were reducing to a piece of meat."

I could see it in his eyes—he didn't get it. Couldn't understand why I'd choose Vera over crew solidarity, couldn't grasp that loving someone meant defending them fiercely, without question, without compromise. To him, I'd violated some unspoken dude code, some male bonding ritual that was supposed to be sacred. Bros before... whatever the firefighter equivalent was.

"She's just some girl, Petra." His voice carried disbelief, like he genuinely couldn't fathom why I was making such a big deal about this. "Is she really worth all this drama? Worth breaking the crew over?"

My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. The urge to hit him surged through me. Not because of what he'd said at the barbecue, but because of this, this casual dismissal of Vera as "just some girl," like she was interchangeable, forgettable, insignificant.

"She's not just some girl," I said, my voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "She's the person I love. She's my home, my future, the best thing that's ever happened to me. And yeah, she's worth it. She'll always be worth it. I'd burn down this entire station before I'd let anyone disrespect her like that again."

The words hung in the air, stark and uncompromising, and I meant every single one.

Davids stared at me for a long moment, and I watched something shift in his expression. Not quite understanding because I don't think he'd ever truly understand, but maybe... recognition? Recognition that I wasn't backing down, that this wasn't negotiable, that he could either accept it or we could stay in this cold war forever.

"Fine," he said finally, turning back to the supplies, his shoulders rigid with defeat or resentment or both. "I won't say anything about your little girlfriend."

"Her name is Vera."