His eyes find mine again, recognition there. "Exactly."
Before I can respond, the radio crackles again with Chief Hawkins requesting an update. Bradley reaches for the mic, and we're back to business, coordinating resources, monitoring systems, playing our parts in this well-choreographed emergency response.
In the brief silences between calls, I catch him watching me with intensity. When our hands brush exchanging reports or reaching for the same control, neither of us pulls away quite as quickly as we should.
"Looks like we're past the worst of it," Bradley says, scanning the weather radar. "Storm's moving east."
"Chief and the team?"
"Heading back once they finish securing the Juniper Road site. ETA about an hour."
The dispatch room feels suddenly quieter, the urgency fading. I realize we've been working side by side for hours, moving in perfect synchrony without needing to explain or direct. Like we've done this a hundred times before.
"We make a good team," I say, surprised by how natural the words feel.
Bradley's eyes meet mine, steady and warm. "We do."
In that moment, with rain still tapping against the windows and the soft glow of emergency lights painting shadows across his face, I recognize what's happening. This isn't just attraction or chemistry or the heightened emotion of crisis.
This is trust. The rare, bone-deep certainty that someone moves through the world the way you do.
"I should check the systems one more time," he says, but he doesn't move immediately. His eyes hold mine, asking a question neither of us is ready to voice.
"I'll monitor the frequencies," I reply, equally reluctant to break this tenuous connection.
Bradley nods, finally rising from his chair. As he moves toward the door, his hand brushes my shoulder briefly, warm even through my sweater.
"Won't be far," he promises.
Chapter 4 – Bradley
As I move toward the door, I find myself reluctant to break the connection that's formed between us over these hours of shared crisis management. Her calm voice directing crews, her steady hands adjusting frequencies, the quiet efficiency that mirrors my own… It all feels like finding an unexpected counterpoint to my carefully constructed solitude.
The storm has quieted somewhat, shifting from violent assault to a persistent, heavy drumming against the roof. Through the narrow corridor windows, I glimpse patches of dark sky between clouds, the occasional star piercing through before being swallowed again by rolling darkness. Not over, but passing. The worst of it moving east, just as the radar predicted.
I make my rounds methodically. The generator's diesel rumble fills the bay with mechanical warmth as I check gauges, note fuel consumption rates, and confirm all essential systems are properly powered.
The routine settles me, returns me to the familiar territory of mechanical certainty. Numbers don't lie. Systems follow logic. These truths have anchored me since my earliest days in the Signal Corps, where communications equipment became my sanctuary amid chaos.
I'm halfway through my checklist when the alert tone cuts through the relative quiet—three sharp electronic chirps that instantly straighten my spine. Emergency call incoming.
I pivot, striding back toward the dispatch room. Denise's voice reaches me first, professional and controlled.
"Copy that, County Dispatch. Location confirmed as Emberstone Hill, quarter-mile past the ridge turnout. One occupant, vehicle disabled."
I enter as she's updating the incident log, her fingers moving efficiently across the keyboard. She glances up, immediately reading my questioning expression.
"Teenage driver. Heading home from a friend's house when his car stalled on the hill. Water in the fuel line, possibly frozen. Says he's running out of gas to keep the heat on." She pulls up the map on her monitor. "Chief and the crew are still tied up with the Juniper Road situation. County can't get anyone up there for at least an hour."
I scan the map, mentally calculating distances and risks. Emberstone Hill is notorious for black ice in these conditions, a steep incline with poor visibility and a guardrail that's been waiting for county repairs since last winter. Not somewhere a kid should be stranded as temperatures drop.
"Give me his number," I say. "I'll take the reserve truck."
Denise's eyes snap to mine. "Alone? In these conditions?"
"Crew's stretched thin already." I keep my voice matter-of-fact. "Kid can't wait an hour in this cold if his heat's failing."
For a moment, she looks like she might argue. Instead, she nods once, decisively, and starts gathering information.
