Leah grins. “You’re in the top five.”
A faint smile pulls at Penny’s mouth, real enough that the coil in my gut eases a little. Herb appears behind Leah next, carrying a tray of empty glasses and carefully places them down on the bar for Gwen.
“There you are,” he says, turning to clap a heavy hand against my shoulder. “Rhodes was asking if you’d made it yet.”
“How’s he doin’?”
Herb exhales through his nose slowly, glancing across the bar.
“About how you’d expect.”
I follow his gaze. Chief Rhodes stands near the back corner beside Remi. She has one hand resting against the carrier holding Zela, while people stop to speak to them in quiet clusters.
He’s dressed in dark jeans and a black button-down instead of his uniform, but he still somehow looks on duty. Spine straight and expression controlled.
Remi looks like someone carved the center out of her. She’s wearing one of Colt’s hoodies with the sleeves pulled over her hands, staring at somebody talking to her like the words are reaching her from underwater. Every now and then, she nods automatically, but her eyes stay fixed somewhere distant.
Ghost hovers nearby, pretending not to. He’s carrying a fresh tray of drinks toward another table, but his attention keeps flicking back toward Remi without him seeming aware of it. The second someone emotional corners her too long, he drifts closer like a barrier.
Penny follows my line of sight and goes quiet beside me. Before either of us can say or do anything, Frankie appears at Penny’s elbow, holding two fresh waters and a basket of fries.
“There you are,” she says softly, pulling Penny carefully into a one-armed hug, mindful of her ribs. “I was about to send out a search party.”
“I think the entire fire department already qualifies as one,” Penny mutters.
“True.” Frankie glances over Penny quickly, in that subtle way women do when they’re checking injuries without making it obvious. “How’re you holding up?”
Penny hesitates. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Yeah,” Frankie says quietly. “Same.”
Across the room, Remi shifts Zela higher against her without really seeming aware she’s doing it, and Frankie’s eyes flick there immediately. Her mouth trembles before she presses it flat, eyes shining as she watches.
Gwen’s voice suddenly cuts across the room from the bar. “If one more firefighter leaves water rings on my damn bar tables today, I’m billing the department.”
Fletch lifts his beer. “Colt would want us disrespecting your furniture.”
“He also thought gas station hot dogs were a delicacy,” Gwen fires back.
A small ripple of laughter moves through the room. Brief, and a little rough around the edges, but real.
Fletch takes a long swallow of beer and points toward Gwen with the neck of the bottle. “You sayin’ my man died without refined taste?”
“Your man once ate an egg quiche that’d been sitting under a heat lamp long enough to qualify for a pension,” Gwen calls back dryly. “I watched him do it.”
“He had a strong immune system.”
Another small burst of laughter rolls through the room, and I catch the way people cling to it for an extra second before conversations start moving again.
It’s strange what grief does to sound. Every laugh feels sharper, every silence heavier.
Before I can think too hard about that, the front door swings open again with a gust of cold rain, and a guy I don’t recognize steps inside.
He’s tall with broad shoulders and dark, damp hair curling slightly from the weather. Mid-twenties, maybe. An Ashgrove Fire hoodie is stretched across his chest, and he pauses justinside the doorway, shaking rain from his sleeves while he scans the room.
Then somehow, impossibly, he smiles.
Not because he’s an asshole. At least, I don’t think he is. No, it’s because he clearly thinks he’s walked into some crowded firefighter bar night.
