Page 9 of Christmas with Three Firemen

At last, as the clock ticks closer to midnight, it quiets enough that I dare to emerge from the room once more and peer out over the railing of the mezzanine. The apparatus bay is significantly emptier of crew members. Whatever routine Captain Hale has them on must put them elsewhere in the building at this hour.

Everyone except for Wes.

He’s standing on the far end of the space, alone and silent, watching snow drift down beyond the open doors. The dimmed fluorescents catch the sharp angles of his profile, visible even from all the way up here. I don’t know why, but I stare at him for a while, wondering how someone so beautiful could seem so melancholy.

Then, as if he senses the weight of my gaze, he glances over his shoulder and lifts his face up to the mezzanine.

I immediately sink back into the shadows, blushing furiously like a schoolgirl caught giving her crush heart eyes.

That’s not what was happening. I just happened to be looking at him when he just happened to look at me.

I slink back into the room and pretend that I’m going to sleep, but even when I lie down on the twin-size mattress, I know I’m too keyed up by the change in my surroundings to be getting much sleep tonight.

I should be used to it. I was eight years old when impermanence became a permanent feature of my life. After losing both of my parents, I was tossed between countless family members over the years. My aunt, then my other aunt, then my grandmother, and then finally my Uncle Zack, who actually had the means and patience to deal with little orphan Noelle long enough for me to get through my last two years of high school without having to transfer.

But then I went away to college, drifting from one dorm to the next and then eventually to a string of increasingly tolerable apartments throughout the city until I finally got my hands on a rent-controlled gem in West Harlem. Still, I’ve only been there for a little over a year.

It just goes to show that, no matter how familiar something becomes, our brain can still be incurably stubborn about accepting the truth of it.

I get out of bed around half past one. My stomach is growling, and I’m sure they have something edible down in the kitchen that I could nibble on.

When I make my way downstairs and through the quiet bay, the common room lights are off and the television is dark. A Christmas tree glows softly in the corner, though, because God forbid I’m allowed to forget what time of year it is.

A pipe rattles somewhere overhead. A door opens and closes somewhere down another hallway. Someone laughs in the distance.

I stare at the shadows, then at the glowing clock on the wall. Then back at the ceiling.

Normally, insomnia isn’t too much of a problem for me.

I know how to manage it. A cup of tea and a case file. Several hours of productive work to get my eyes drifting shut on their own. That magic isn’t working tonight, though, and I know the real issue is that every time I close my eyes, my brain insists on replaying the events of the day.

The remains of Station 4. Morrison’s too-jolly announcement of my unfortunate fate.

Mateo’s warm smile and appreciative gaze.

Grant’s steady, challenging glare.

Wes’s quiet observation.

I drop down onto the sofa and sink into the surprisingly plush cushions. My eyes drift shut in the darkness, nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the quiet gurgle of the coffee machine to disturb me in this moment.

It’s oddly more comfortable to be down here in this communal space all by myself instead of upstairs in my captain-designated hideaway.

I take a deep breath.

Before I know it, I’m drifting away…

Silk sheets feel luxuriously smooth against my skin, no longer rough in texture like the upholstered sofa I thought I’d been dozing on. The room is bathed in moonlight, tacky string lights nowhere to be seen, and shadows dance on the walls like silent observers.

I’m not alone.

Three figures emerge from the darkness, their silhouettes tall and imposing. The tallest of them steps forward first, a commanding presence that makes my stomach swoop with anticipation without him needing to say a word.

I’m hardly aware of his approach, but then his fingers are tracing the curve of my bare hip, sending shivers down my spine.

I hadn’t realized I was naked.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, that sweet praise vibrating throughout my body.