"Now I'm just here." I gesture vaguely, encompassing the station, the town, this moment. "Found something worth staying for."
Another crack of thunder shakes the building, closer this time. The lights dim momentarily, and a chill draft sweeps through the room. Denise shivers visibly.
I rise without comment, retrieving the heavy fire blanket from its hook by the door. Instead of handing it to her, I drape it around her shoulders, my fingers brushing the nape of her neck as I do.
"Thanks," she murmurs, pulling the blanket tighter. "Guess I'm not built for mountain weather yet."
I return to my seat, suddenly very interested in my chili. "It takes time to acclimate."
I find myself stealing glances at her, the thoughtful way she eats, the slight furrow between her brows when she's considering something, the curve of her mouth when she catches me looking.
"So," she says finally, setting down her spoon. "You've heard my voice for months now. What did you imagine I'd be like?"
The question is playful, but something in her tone suggests genuine curiosity. I consider before answering.
"Competent," I say. "Calm under pressure. Smart."
She raises an eyebrow. "That's it? Just a list of professional qualities?"
"No," I admit, meeting her gaze directly. "I thought you'd be exactly as you are."
The words hang between us, simple but heavy with meaning. Denise's expression softens, something vulnerable flickering across her features before she masks it with a smile.
"Well, that's disappointing," she says lightly. "I was hoping for 'secretly a superhero' or at least 'unexpected ninja skills.'"
"The night's still young. Plenty of time for ninja revelations."
Her answering laugh melts something inside me, some frozen corner I didn't realize was still there.
I should be checking the generator again. Should be monitoring the radio. Should be doing anything other than sitting here, watching Denise Cole wrap her fingers around a chipped mug, wondering what it would be like to feel those fingers against my skin.
Instead, I reach across the table to adjust the blanket where it's fallen, my hand lingering perhaps a moment too long.
"Can't have our dispatcher catching cold," I say quietly.
Chapter 3 – Denise
Bradley's fingers linger on the blanket, his touch whisper-light against my shoulder, and something in me goes very still. I find myself caught in his steady gaze, the weight of it warm and unexpected.
The radio on the counter crackles to life, saving me from whatever might have happened next.
"Dispatch to the station, come in." Ramirez's voice, tinny through the speaker, shatters the quiet bubble we've created.
I'm on my feet before I've made the conscious decision to move, blanket sliding to my chair as I cross to the radio. Professional mode kicks in like a reflex.
"This is Cole at the station, go ahead."
"Got reports of flooding at the north end of Juniper Road. Water's rising fast, and Chief Hawkins is requesting all available hands at the scene. Also, county's reporting multiple incidents across Whitetail Valley. The storm's pushing harder than predicted."
"Copy that," I respond to Ramirez. "Standing by for incoming calls. Engineer Wood will coordinate from here."
Bradley nods approval at my quick assessment. We both know he can't leave, not with the generator and systems requiring monitoring, not with the weather worsening and the station serving as our only secure comms hub.
"Let's move to the dispatch room," he says, already heading for the door. "Better equipment, better signal."
I follow, the blanket forgotten, adrenaline beginning its familiar hum in my veins. The hallway feels colder now, the storm's voice louder through the old windows. Lightning flashes, throwing Bradley's profile into sharp relief for an instant before thunder crashes overhead, so close it makes the floor tremble.
The dispatch room at the station is nothing like my usual post—smaller, older, with equipment that's functional but not cutting-edge. Still, there's comfort in the familiar layout: the bank of radios, the monitors showing weather patterns and road conditions, the worn chair that's seen a thousand emergencies before this one.
