“You do. I feel both educated and mildly supervised.”
From the table, Mason stage-whispers loudly. “He definitely has tour-guide voice.”
“It’s worse when he starts gesturing,” adds Luke.
Evan turns his head to shout over the truck. “Eat your food.”
He opens one of the compartments to show me what’s inside, full of coiled hoses and tools clipped into place with almost obsessive precision.
“This is the hydraulic kit,” he says, gesturing to each item. “Stabilization blocks. Glass management.”
“Glassmanagement…”
“Mhmm.”
“You’re showing me these things like they’re on a spa menu.”
A corner of his mouth twitches, and he guides me past the lockers. His name is stenciled above one, the paint slightly worn. The door’s cracked open, boots lined neatly beneath it, his jacket hanging heavy and ready.
“So you sleep here?” I ask as he leads me down the short corridor.
“When we’re on night shift, yeah.”
“And if you’re mid-meal and the alarm goes?”
“When the tones drop, we go.”
“Immediately?”
“Yes.”
“And if someone’s in the shower?”
He looks at me. “We go.”
“Wow.”
He huffs through his nose. “You enjoying this?”
“I think I just like seeing you in your element.”
The words leave me before I can think about them, and he slows his steps.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re different here,” I say with a shrug. “More relaxed.”
Which I know must sound odd—I assume a fire station isn’t exactly the most calm environment—but his eyes hold mine for a beat anyway. He opens his mouth to reply, but Mason’s voice drifts faintly from the bay.
“He’s definitely gonna show her his bed.”
Evan steps a little closer to me, close enough that his arm brushes mine.
“Ignore him,” he murmurs.
I nod as we reach a row of doors, and he swings one open. There’s a double bed with folded blankets on the end, and a radio charger humming faintly on the wall.
“You have your own rooms?”
