Page 21 of Christmas with Three Firemen

Right. The investigation. The entire reason she’s here. The older firehouses in the city have been targeted by alleged arsonists and the city thinks ours might be victimized next.

When the majority of us left, she must have been terrified the attacker—if that’s what is truly happening—might take advantage of the opportunity.

Still, I don’t bother assuring her that every single person at the station knows there is a civilian living among us and that she would be the first priority for rescue if any harm came to this place. She knows that. It’s her job to understand every minute detail of fires and fire response.

“Anyway,” Noelle sighs, not bothering to finish her previous sentence. “I guess I just get a little sensitive during the holidays. Don’t mind me, being all emo up here by myself.”

I snort softly. “There’s nothing wrong with getting emotional during Christmas.”

Noelle glances up at me. “Oh, yeah? Do you get teary-eyed when you hear ‘Silver Bells’ or something?”

Deflection. Forced apathy. She’s trying to shake it all off and act like her fear isn’t a big deal.

“Sometimes,” I admit. “But I meant more like, it’s okay to not be happy even during the time of year when you’re supposed to be happy all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs, hugging her arms around herself as a particularly brutal wind gusts over the roof. “I haven’t really celebrated Christmas since I was eight.”

I nod.

She doesn’t explain further, and I don’t ask.

I haven’t truly celebrated Christmas since the December I lost one of my best friends in Afghanistan. Sure, I play along with all the holiday traditions for the sake of going with the flow, but my heart hasn’t been in it for years. It’s not something that’s easy to talk about, especially not with strangers, so I know better than to pry into her small admission without further invitation.

So, I just keep standing there while snow lazily gathers at our feet.

The longer we stay, the less tense she becomes. Her shoulders loosen and her breathing evens out. I imagine that the distance she keeps between herself and the rest of the world softens.

Eventually, she exhales.

“I should try to sleep,” she says. “Goodnight, Wes. Thanks for… um. Just thanks, I guess.”

I offer her a smile as she steps away. “‘Night, Noelle.”

She walks toward the roof access door, footsteps crunching delicately in the snow. The door clicks shut behind her.

I remain on the roof for another minute, watching snow fall over Manhattan.

When I head back down to the third floor, my attention shifts to something I noticed on my way up but chose not to acknowledge. Another cracked door, but with lamp light spilling out. Cap’s office.

I slow my steps on the way past, and I’m not even surprised to lock eyes with Grant sitting behind his desk, staring toward the doorway as if he was waiting specifically for me to reappear.

I don’t pause to chat, but I do offer a subtle nod before carrying on my way. It’s not against the rules to be on the rooftop, but somehow I feel like I’ve upset the balance by being up there with her. I broke routine to offer the thorn in Cap’s side a moment of comfort.

But I get the sense he’s not interested in acknowledging it.

So, I go downstairs and get back to work.

Chapter five

Chapter Five: Grant

I’ve been a firefighter for more than two decades.

In that time, I have been burned, bruised, broken, and stitched back up again more times than I can count. I’ve worked seventy-two hours straight during devastating hurricanes and days-long Nor’easters. I’ve performed CPR on strangers in subway stations and carried children down smoke-filled stairwells.

All of that is to say that I possess an exceptionally high tolerance for stress.

Which is exactly why it irritates me so deeply that one civilian investigator with sparkly green eyes and an alarming disregard for authority is currently testing the limits of it.