Page 93 of Cinder
We’ve stood in a different living room before with different chaos. With a different woman insisting she was fine while the world around her tilted.
They were there when Stacey started slipping, when the shouting turned into slammed doors and broken plates. They were there the night I packed a bag for Elle and walked out because staying would’ve been worse.
They remember just as clearly as I do, because she was family once. To all of them.
The ambulance doors close and the sirens fade, but Dylan is still clutching the bear.
We clear the scene, but no one says much as we climb back onto the truck. Ghost stares out the window, and Colt rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Fletch sits quieter than he ever does, the cab only filled with the low hum of the engine and the muted crackle of the radio.
I watch the road ahead and feel the echo of Dylan flinching to the sound of his mother arguing settle somewhere deep and stubborn inside me.
I’ve built my life around stability, around not letting that kind of unpredictability anywhere near Elle. Around making sure my daughter never has to sit on a couch and wonder if the person on the floor is going to get up.
But tonight, five minutes before I was meant to clock off and go home, it all walked back into view, and I’m not sure yet whether it makes me want to shut everything down or hold on tighter to what I’ve built.
Back at the station, the bay feels too bright after the house. We strip our gear off in near silence, and I keep my eyes down, even though I can feel the eyes of the boys silently communicating.It’s the same routine we always do after every call, except tonight it feels heavier than usual.
I slam my locker shut harder than I mean to, and the clang echoes through the bay.
Beck’s eyes lift briefly from the report in his hand. “Prince.”
“I’m fine.”
The words come too fast, and Fletch disappears tactfully into the kitchen. Ghost follows him a second later, giving me space without making it obvious. Colt lingers near the truck, pretending to reorganize equipment that’s already been reorganized twice.
And Beck waits me out, which somehow makes it worse.
I yank my gloves from the shelf, and one of the plastic equipment trays catches awkwardly on the edge, crashing to the concrete loud enough to ricochet through the bay.
“Fuck!”
I bend to grab it, but Beck gets there first, setting the tray upright before looking at me.
“You done?”
Something hot climbs up my throat, because no. I am not fucking done.
I’m tired. I’m angry. And I’m thinking about a little boy sitting frozen on a couch while his mother swore she was fine, and all I can see is Elle.
And Penny.
Penny standing in my kitchen making penguin sandwiches, and Penny folding herself into our routines so easily it scares the shit out of me.
“Prince,” Beck says again, quieter this time.
I drag a hand over my face with a sigh. “I’m fine, Cap.”
“Bullshit.” Beck folds the report closed. “You stayed locked in through the call. That’s good, that’s what we need. But you don’t get points for carrying it home after, you know that.”
My jaw tightens, and he studies me another second before jerking his head toward the parking lot. “Start two hours late tomorrow.”
“I don’t need—”
“That’s an order.”
***
The house is dark when I pull into the driveway, with the porch light off and curtains drawn. Good. They’re probably both asleep.
