Page 60 of Second Alarm

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"Gemma is fine."

"Gemma is — yes. Gemma is fine. Gemma is actually a blessing. But — "

"We need better infrastructure."

"We need to not do this at the station. Starting tomorrow. And also forever."

"Agreed." I gesture between us. "In a bad way."

"Yes." His mouth does the thing. "We are terrible at this."

"Please go somewhere else."

"Yeah." He goes — to the apparatus bay, where he's supposed to be.

I go to the kitchen.

Cal is at the stove in his bare feet, which is against kitchen policy on account of what Derek did with the marinara in February, stirring pasta without a care in the world.

"Where were you?" He doesn't look up.

"Pillowcases."

"You were gone a long time."

"The light burned out."

"In the closet?"

"Screwed the bulb tighter. It worked."

He goes back to stirring without pursuing it. Cal doesn't question things that don't fit an obvious pattern of suspicion, which means I can tell him essentially any story and he'll accept it, and I've decided for the last three days that this is a tool in our toolkit. Ty has told me I'm overestimating this toolkit. He’s probably right.

"How's the pasta?"

"It's pasta." He dumps a mountain of it into a bowl and hands me sauce from a jar, then parmesan from a container the size of a paint can.

"Hanna."

"Yeah."

"I'm going to say something." He leans on the counter.

My stomach drops. It's the pasta, I tell myself.

"I've been thinking about the Derek thing at the bar. And about Kevin. The dating thing." He picks up his fork, sets itdown. "I think I was being a lot. I think I see you like you're still a kid, and I know you're not a kid. You're almost thirty. You're a whole grown person, a paramedic, you've been out of my sight for ten years and managed fine. And the moment you come back I'm all up in your business, telling people off in bars, trying to set you up — "

"Cal — "

"I'm not apologizing."

"Okay."

"I just want you to know I see it. And I love you."

"Cal."

"I do."

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