His mouth flutters as his shoulders tighten, his eyes flickering with embarrassment.
He shifts, lifting his fingers and signing. “Captain. Wants. Me. Back.”
“Of course he does,” I say. “They need you.”
Derek chews the inside of his cheek as his gaze drops to the bar top.
He signs more slowly, less confidently.
“My shoulder needs to improve; he’ll only take me back if I agree to physical therapy.”
His injury, the nightmare that prevents him from holding a hose at full weight, climbing ladders like he used to, or yelling into smoke-filled rooms when seconds matter. His captain isn’t worried about his speech as he’s in speech therapy, but it’s his range of motion and flexibility that need work.
I nod. “It will.”
He looks up, like he wants to argue, but Caleb interrupts before he can.
“Daddy’s the best firefighter. He saved a puppy once.”
Derek tries to hide his cringe.
I let myself smile.
“That’s pretty badass,” I tell Caleb, leaning in. “Did the puppy thank him?”
“Yeah! He licked his ear.”
Derek clears his throat and shoots me a pleading look, likedon’t you dare make this a thing.
I raise my hands in surrender.
Derek’s lips twitch, the tiniest laugh hidden behind them.
He looks more alive when Caleb is here.
Caleb finishes his drink with a dramatized slurp. “We’re gonna go to the park now, before we head back home.”
Derek gives Caleb a gentle nudge, his mismatched eyes—one warm amber-brown, the other piercing storm-blue—softening in a way most people never see. His voice is rough as he pushes out one more word.
“Thanks.”
It lands heavily because I understand what it costs him to speak at all.
I nod.
“Anytime, Reeves.”
He places a hand on the back of his son’s hoodie, and they head for the door. Caleb waves his dinosaur at me, saying goodbye.
Sunlight stretchesthrough the blinds in angled stripes, and there is nothing to fill the silence except the faint hum of the refrigerator and the uneven rhythm of my own breath.
I need to move, to do something that feels like living, so I step outside.
The porch boards creak beneath my boots as I head to the mailbox. The neighborhood smells like autumn is near, full of freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, and that gentle warmth that lingers on everything once the sun has been shining long enough.
Someone nearby must be grilling, because the air carries a hint of sweet barbecue smoke too, the scent wrapping around the breeze.
I reach my weathered, rusted mailbox and open the lid; what I find knocks the air from my lungs.
