Aidric, arms loaded down with groceries and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper he'd insisted on for some reason, attempts to navigate the entryway only to have Spark launch herself directly at the paper bag.
She lands with a triumphant squeak, sending a carton of eggs nearly toppling before Calder—who has been expertly dodging kitten carnage with the reflexes of a seasoned firefighter—reaches out one-handed and steadies the bag.
They exchange a look, a silent communication of exasperation, amusement, and something warmer, and for a fleeting second, the kitchen is awash in the kind of familial energy I had never thought to crave.
Blaze finally descends from his throne to greet us each in turn, his massive head butting into my thigh with a weighty affection that nearly knocks me off balance. He sniffs my hands, inspects Ember still clinging to my collar, and gives a satisfied huff as if to say, 'Yes, all is as it should be.'
When Bear ruffles his ears, Blaze leans into it with the trust and abandon of an animal who knows he's adored, a reminder that even the most stalwart guardians need their own moments of softness.
We linger for a few minutes in this animal-fueled pandemonium, our laughter and the kittens' purrs intermingling in the air, before the natural current of the evening guides us toward the communal heart of the station—the common area where the on-duty firefighters are already gathered, decompressing from their own shifts.
The aroma of fresh cookies, still warm from the oven, follows us down the hall, fusing with the scents of coffee, aftershave, andthe lingering musk of scorched cedar that seems permanently baked into the walls.
I can't help myself; I take it one step further, affecting Aidric’s most dramatic scowl and intoning, “It was a tragic geological event, boys. My condolences to the tectonic plates.”
Bear nearly chokes on his cookie, and Calder leans in conspiratorially, deadpanning, “Careful, Murphy, he’ll put you on hose-washing duty for that one.”
Silas, usually the voice of reason, is grinning so wide I wonder if his cheeks will cramp.
There’s a palpable sense of camaraderie, the playful ribbing not just tolerated but actively embraced; it’s a kind of roughhousing warmth I haven’t felt since the last time my dad and I tackled a transmission together, arguing about torque settings while up to our elbows in motor oil.
Aidric recovers quickly, giving me a mock salute with his Dr. Pepper can.
“Touché, Murphy. But tomorrow you’re on bread detail. We’ll see who the true geological menace is.”
His eyes sparkle with challenge, and a ripple of anticipation zips through me. I want to win, to show up, to be seen by these men who—against all odds—have given me a place at this table.
Calder’s gaze finds me, steady and golden, and he says, “I’ve got ten bucks on Murphy’s biscuits. That’s a bet for the record.”
Bear, never one to miss a chance to raise the stakes, counters, “Make it twenty and loser has to wear Silas’s old turnout pants for the rest of the week.”
A round of theatrical groans erupts—everyone knows Silas’s ‘lucky’ gear smells like a smokehouse that’s lost a battle with an entire maple syrup factory.
I bask in the easy, competitive affection, letting it wrap around me like a heated blanket. Every little exchange—every nudge, every wink, every cookie passed hand-to-hand—cements a growing certainty.
I am, indisputably, one of them.
OFFICE NEGOTIATIONS AND ELEVATOR REVELATIONS
~WENDOLYN~
Chief Tom Rodriguez's office embodies everything I associate with career firefighters who've dedicated decades to the profession—walls decorated with commendations and photographs documenting years of service, a desk buried under organized chaos of paperwork and manuals, the particular scent of coffee that's been reheated multiple times, and resignation to administrative duties.
Leadership central.
Where decisions affecting the entire station get made.
Where my professional future is apparently being determined.
I sit in one of the visitor chairs, positioned at an angle that allows a clear view of both Tom and the door, tactical awareness ingrained through years of assessing threat vectors and exit strategies.
Old habits.
Die hard.
Tom leans back in his chair—weathered leather that creaks with the movement, his expression carrying satisfaction that makes my professional instincts activate.
He's pleased about something.
