"Delivery service," I say, holding up my bag. "Chief Hawkins asked for these batteries, and I've got updated call sheets that need signatures."
"Ah, our radio angel finally shows herself." He steps aside with an exaggerated bow. "The guys will be thrilled to put a face to the voice that's been bossing us around."
"I don't boss," I protest, following him. "Icoordinate."
"Coordinate, command, cajole—whatever gets us where we need to be." He winks. "Though I gotta say, you sound taller on the radio."
"And you sound less annoying," I counter, surprising myself with the easy banter. In Seattle, I'd have kept it professional. Here, something about the warmth of the station, the drumming rain outside, loosens my usual restraint.
The kitchen falls momentarily silent as I enter. Five men look up from their tasks, some still in parts of their gear, others changed into department t-shirts. I recognize Chief Hawkins immediately, his salt-and-pepper beard and permanent scowl unmistakable even when directed at a pot of what smells like chili.
"Cole," he nods. "Didn't expect to see you in person. Everything alright at dispatch?"
"Yes, sir. Just dropping off those batteries you requested. And these need signatures." I pull the folder from my bag, trying not to feel like I'm interrupting some sacred male ritual. "Thought I'd catch you before the storm really hits."
A crash of thunder punctuates my words, making me jump slightly. The lights flicker once, twice, then stabilize. Rain hammers the kitchen windows like it's trying to get in.
"Seems you just made it," says a voice to my left, deep and familiar.
I turn andfinallyput a face to Engineer Bradley Wood's voice..
He's tall, that's my first thought. Broad-shouldered but lean, with the kind of functional strength that comes from actual work, not a gym membership. Dark hair cropped close, a short beard framing a mouth that looks like it smiles rarely. His skin is tan even in November, with lines at the corners of eyes that watch me with quiet assessment.
But it's his stillness that catches me off guard. While the others shift and move around the kitchen, Bradley Wood stands perfectly centered in his space, like a man who learned long ago exactly how much room he takes up in the world.
My heart does something complicated in my chest—a skip, a stutter, a recalibration.
"Denise Cole," I manage, extending my hand. "We haven't officially met."
His palm meets mine, warm and calloused. "Bradley Wood. Though you knew that already."
He doesn't release my hand immediately. Just long enough that when he does let go, I feel the absence like a change in temperature.
"Hard to forget the guy who rescued Mrs. Finch's parrot from the courthouse clock tower," I say, grateful my voice comes out steady.
The corners of his eyes crinkle. "That bird had a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush."
"I believe you used the phrase 'airborne profanity hazard' in your report."
A flash of surprise crosses his face, followed by something warmer. "You remember that?"
"It's not every day I get to log 'successful extraction of hostile avian suspect' in the system," I reply, watching how his mouth quirks slightly upward on one side. "Besides, you have a way with words when you want to."
"Only when necessary." His gaze holds mine a beat too long. "Wasted words just create more noise."
I'm suddenly aware of how everyone else in the kitchen has gone suspiciously quiet. Like they're witnessing something I don't want witnessed. Like they can see how his voice resonates inside me in a way I can't explain.
Before I can answer, and before I can wonder why I remembered that silly report detail myself, Chief Hawkins interrupts.
"If you two are done with your little meet-cute, I'll take those batteries. The storm's picking up, and we need to check the backup systems."
I hand over the batteries, flustered for no good reason. The chief takes them with a grunt that might be thanks, then shoves the folder at Nathan, who I now recognize as the tall firefighter stirring something that smells incredible.
"Sign these while I check the generator," Hawkins orders, then looks at me. "You should get going, Cole. Roads will be swimming soon."
As if summoned by his words, the storm unleashes itself fully. Rain hammers against the windows, and wind howls through every crack in the century-old building. The lights flicker again, longer this time.
"I'll walk you out," Bradley offers, already reaching for an umbrella by the door.
