"No," I admit. "But I would have regretted it."
Denise studies me, eyes thoughtful. "I'm glad my car's a temperamental old thing, then."
"Me too."
The admission hangs between us, simple but profound.
I find myself searching for more words—to explain this feeling, to make sense of how quickly certainty has replaced solitude in my chest. But before I can speak, the sound of voices and boots in the corridor announces the arrival of the crew.
Nathan enters first, snow melting from his coat, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. He stops short at the sight of us, surprise quickly replaced by knowing amusement.
"Well, well," he says, glancing between us. "Looks like you two kept warm during the power outage."
Logan follows, then Austin, bringing the scent of cold air and pine with them. Their teasing is immediate, good-natured, and relentless.
"Dispatch and Engineer, sitting in a tree," Logan sings, dropping into a chair at the table.
"Professional collaboration at its finest," Austin adds, eyebrows waggling.
They expect me to retreat into stoic silence, maybe a slight nod of acknowledgment at most. Instead, I surprise them by smiling openly.
"Coffee's almost ready," I say, reaching for mugs in the cabinet. "There are cookies too."
The use of her first name doesn't go unnoticed when I add, "Denise found them in the pantry."
Nathan's eyebrows rise, but his smile is genuine. "Cookies and coffee? Must have been some storm."
Denise takes the teasing in stride, arranging the cookies on the plate with casual grace. "How bad was it out there?"
Just like that, the conversation shifts to practicalities—road conditions, property damage, the flooded sections of Juniper Road.
The crew recounts their night between grateful sips of coffee, tension easing from their bodies as warmth and caffeine do their work.
I move through the familiar rhythm of post-shift routine, but everything feels subtly altered. I'm more present, more engaged. When Logan describes nearly falling into the rushing water at the Miller place, I find myself laughing along instead of just listening.
When Chief Hawkins finally arrives, looking like he's aged a decade overnight, I'm the one who pulls out a chair for him, pours his coffee just the way he likes it.
Through it all, Denise works beside me as if we've done this a hundred times—passing mugs, refilling the coffee pot, her hand occasionally brushing mine in ways that seem both accidental and deliberate. The crew notices but integrates her seamlessly into their circle, treating her like she's always been part of this post-crisis communion.
"So, Cole," Chief Hawkins says between sips of coffee, "your car still giving you trouble?"
I tense slightly, recognizing the question beneath the question. The storm is passing. Roads will soon be clearing. There's no reason for her to stay.
"Actually," I say before she can answer, "she's staying for dinner."
The declaration hangs in the air, more significant than the simple words convey. Denise looks at me, surprise giving way to something warmer.
"Dinner?" Nathan echoes, glancing between us.
"Thanksgiving dinner," I clarify. "If that works for everyone."
Logan grins broadly. "Fine by me. She's already feeding us better than Wood ever has."
The matter settles just like that—Denise officially welcomed into our makeshift holiday gathering.
The conversation flows onward, plans forming for the meal later that day. Someone mentions cranberry sauce. Normalcy reasserts itself in the wake of crisis, as it always does.
As the crew finishes their coffee and disperses to clean up and change, I find myself alone with Denise by the sink, rinsing mugs.
