Page 53 of Smoke Signals

Dark bumps my shoulder lightly. “Looked good in there.”

“Felt good,” I admit.

And it does.

But as we pack up, watching the woman hug a neighbor in relief, another thought slips in uninvited.

Hartley would hate this part.

Not the helping but the risk, the uncertainty that lives underneath every call.

It isn’t resentment that follows the thought, just understanding.

Back at the station the energy settles into post-call chaos, gear hung to dry, coffee poured again, everyone talking over each other.

Dark leans against the counter beside me. “So,” he says casually, “you still tutoring?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re smiling more.”

“I always smile.”

“Not like that.”

Phoenix overhears immediately. “Oh hell, he’s seeing someone.”

I choke on my coffee. “You guys need hobbies.”

Sterling grins. “Who is he?”

I hesitate half a second too long.

Dark’s eyes widen. “Oh damn. It’s serious.”

“It’s not,” I start, then stop because even I don’t believe that anymore. “It’s… someone important.”

The reaction is instant; chaos, laughter, shoulder bumps, mock congratulations that echo through the bay.

It feels good, easier than I expected.

Later, after my shift ends and the trucks roll out again, I linger alone in the bay. The space feels quieter without the noise, shadows stretching long across the concrete.

The bay feels bigger when the trucks are gone, like something vital just stepped out of the room.

I lean against the ladder truck, hands resting on cool metal, and realize something that surprises me.

I don’t feel empty when the day ends.

I used to hate this part; the sudden silence after adrenaline faded, the feeling of waiting for the next call to feel alive again.

Now my mind goes somewhere else entirely.

A small apartment with a couch crowded with blankets and a kid who hums while she plays.

I pull out my phone.

Me: I miss you guys.