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“Do you ever go to the station?” I ask.

“Yeah, all the time. You can go whenever, they don’t care, but sometimes Dad’s not there because they’re on a call. One time me and Grandma made cookies and brought them and he wasn’t there, so we left them in the kitchen with a note, and when he got back he texted a picture of the empty plate because they ate them all in like five minutes.”

So even if Luke’s out on a call, we can leave the cupcake. Simple. Drop it off, note on top, one small boy’s conscience restored. I’m already reaching for my purse.

“So one vanilla cupcake for your dad,” I say, standing. “Let’s go get it.”

“Wait.” Bo puts a hand up like a crossing guard. “What about the other firefighters?”

“What about them?”

“They work hard too. Just like my dad. They run into fires and they miss cupcakes too.” He nods, satisfied. “We need enough for everybody. Plus Dad. Plus extra, in case.”

I look at this child. This ten-year-old who has, in under a minute, argued me from one cupcake to catering an entire fire station, and who is looking up at me with complete confidence that I’ll do the right thing.

“You’re going to be a very effective adult,” I tell him.

“I know.”

We get two dozen cupcakes.

Chapter 17

Olivia

The bay doors stand wide open, letting the warm September air drift through the station.

The crew is wrapping up what looks like the end of a training drill. Hose is stretched across the concrete, glistening in the afternoon sun. Someone is rolling it back onto the truck while another firefighter laughs as he wrings water from the bottom of his shirt.

Then, my eyes find Luke.

He’s standing with his back to us, tugging a soaked navy shirt over his head in one easy motion.

I stop walking.

The shirt disappears, and for a second my brain forgets every single thing it has ever learned.

Broad shoulders.

A back carved by years of carrying hoses, climbing ladders, and hauling people to safety.

Muscles that aren’t the kind built under fluorescent gym lights, but earned over countless twenty-four-hour shifts and hard work.

His turnout pants still hug his hips, suspenders hanging loose, boots planted firmly against the concrete.

A sheen of sweat catches the afternoon light across his shoulders.

A drop of water trails slowly down the center of his back.

I follow it.

Without permission.

He reaches for the towel draped over the engine and drags it across the back of his neck before rubbing it through his damp hair.

The movement is slow.

Unhurried.