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“Some losses don’t let you,” he admitted, spreading the garlic butter on the bread and putting it under the broiler.

When he drained the pasta, the kitchen filled with steam, and the air grew thick.

Desiree wiped her brow with the sleeve of her jacket. “It’s hot in here.”

He glanced at the thermostat by the door, which was reading eighty-one. “My mom’s theory is if the kitchen isn’t ten degrees hotter than the rest of the house, you’re not doing it right.”

Desiree smirked. “She sounds formidable.”

He grinned. “Wait ’til you meet her.”

The pasta went onto flower-patterned plates that his mom bought in the 80s, sauce on top, bread on the side. Brandon gestured at the kitchen table, and they both sat.

Brandon bowed his head and said a simple prayer of the meal. “Thank You, Lord, for this meal, and for not letting me burn down the kitchen while making it. Bless this food to our bodies and help us solve these arson fires. In Jesus’ Name, we pray, Amen.”

Desiree waited until he lifted his fork, then started eating. She took a bite, and after a beat, nodded. “It’s not bad,” she said, which for her was high praise.

He chuckled. “Glad you approve, Investigator.”

They ate in a rhythm, neither in a hurry, neither pushing for conversation. The only sound was the clink of forks on the plates and the hum of the fridge behind them.

Eventually, Brandon refilled both water glasses and leaned back in his chair. “My dad used to check his gear at the door before every shift. Even on holidays—he’d line up his boots, check his helmet, make sure his gloves were in the right pocket.” Brandon smiled, but the lines at the corners of his mouth didn’t soften. “I started doing it, too. Thought if I copied everything, maybe I’d turn out just like him.”

Desiree watched him, head tilted, as if weighing how much to say. She let the silence stretch, then finally asked, “Did you?”

Brandon thought about it, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Depends on who you ask.”

She didn’t fill the silence with another question. She just picked up her water and took a slow sip.

He set his glass down, turned it a quarter turn, then turned it back. The condensation left a wet ring on the table that he didn’t wipe up. “The first time I walked into the chief’s office after they pinned the new badge on me, I sat behind that desk and I just...stared at the wall, for a long time. There’s this photo on the credenza—my dad shaking hands with the governor, some award ceremony from ‘09. And I thought, what am I even doing in this chair?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Half the guys on my crew called him Chief. The other half called him Coach. They’d have followed him into a volcano. And here I am, the kid who got the job because of his last name.”

Desiree set her fork down. “You think that’s why you got it?”

“Part of it, yeah.” He didn’t look at her. His thumb traced the rim of his glass. “The town council wanted a Holloway in that office. Tradition, you know? But I’ve got to prove I deserve it. Not just because of my name, but because I actually earned it.”

Desiree leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “I don’t think anyone’s questioning whether you earned it.”

“Maybe not out loud.” He looked up at her, and something in her expression made his chest tighten. “You know what it’s like, though. Being the one who has to prove they belong.”

She nodded slowly. “Every single day. But in your case, they respect you. I hear how your crew talks about you. I think they would follow you into a volcano, too.”

When the meal was over, Desiree cleared the plates without being asked. She stacked them in the sink, rinsed them, and left them there, then wiped her hands on a towel and looked back at him. “Thanks for dinner. I won’t say it was better than a steak, but it got the job done.”

He smiled and reached out to gently squeeze her arm. “You’re welcome.”

Brandon was in the middle of telling Desiree how Ruiz had once managed to set a turkey on fire inside the station kitchen, when the back door clapped open, and his mother entered, mid-sentence, her voice pitched to carry all the way through the house.

“I told you to use the large pot for sauce, honey, or else it boils over, and you have to scrub the stove,” she called out, before she’d even registered the kitchen had company.

His mother stopped short at the sight of Desiree perched on the barstool. For half a second, the room froze, as if the air itself took a breath.

Brandon was out of his seat, cheeks red. “Mom—this is Investigator Garcia. Desiree. From the county.”

His mother took it in stride. She set her canvas purse on the counter, shed her coat, and went straight for Desiree with both hands out, as if they’d been family for years. “Oh, I’m so glad to meet you,” she greeted, enveloping Desiree’s hand in hers, the grip surprisingly strong. “Brandon has not stopped talking about this investigation. I told him he’d better not go making a fool of himself in front of a real arson specialist.”

Brandon looked mortified. “I haven’t⁠—”

“You have,” she corrected, then turned back to Desiree, eyes bright with curiosity and kindness. “Are you getting enough to eat? Did he try to make you pasta?”