Page 94 of Christmas with Three Firemen

Rico, both eyebrows finally grown back in, argues with Danny about whether “Baby It’s Cold Outside” should be allowed on the rotation at all, an argument that has apparently been running since before I was captain here.

Callum burns the first batch of bacon, and nobody lets him live it down. Tara reads a magazine at the table with the specific unbothered calm of a woman who has survived every version of this chaos for a decade and stopped being surprised by any of it.

Noelle comes down in one of my old station sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up, hair loose, and sits at the table across from Tara like she’s always sat there, like this is simply what her mornings look like now.

“Pancakes or the eggs Callum’s threatening to attempt,” Mateo asks her.

“Pancakes. I don’t trust Callum with eggs.”

“Wise woman,” Danny says, without looking up from his coffee.

Wes comes down last, settling into the chair beside her without a word, the way he settles into most rooms, and their shoulders find each other’s without either of them seeming to decide it on purpose.

I watch all of it from the stove, flipping the pancakes Mateo’s technically supposed to be watching, and think that this is the loudest, most ordinary Christmas morning I’ve had in this station in years.

No case to close. No fire to fight. No confession left to make. Just pancakes and bad singing and an argument about a song that’s been the same argument every year since before Noelle Meadows ever walked through that door.

She catches me watching. Doesn’t look away.

I don’t either.

The morning unspools the way ordinary mornings do, slow and unremarkable, and by ten the kitchen’s mostly emptied out, the crew scattering to the bay, to phone calls with families, to the particular business of a holiday shift that still has hours left in it even on a day like this.

I find myself at the window at the end of the hall sometime after, the same window I’ve stood at more times than I could count over the years, watching the street do whatever the street’s doing.

Today it’s doing very little. Snow’s settled into a calm, even blanket over everything, the city quiet in the specific way it gets on Christmas morning, like even the traffic’s decided to observe the holiday.

I hear her come up behind me. I know her footsteps now, the particular rhythm of them, the same way I know Wes’s or Mateo’s, one more thing this building has taught me without my ever signing up for the lesson.

She stops beside me.

I brace myself out of habit, the old instinct, the one that’s kept its careful distance from every good thing for two decades, and then I catch myself doing it and let it go, because there’s no reason for it anymore, hasn’t been for weeks, and old habits take longer to unlearn than they took to build.

She doesn’t stand apart the way she used to.

She leans in, her shoulder against my arm, her head finding the space just below my collarbone like it’s always belonged there, and I put my arm around her without deciding to, the same automatic motion my body’s apparently been rehearsing without asking my permission.

We stand there. The street stays quiet. Somewhere down the block, a kid tests out a new bike in the snow, wobbling, laughing, falling over, getting back up.

“I used to hate this,” she says. Quiet, not really meant as anything more than an observation.

“Christmas.”

“All of it. The lights, the music, the whole performance. I used to stand at windows like this one and watch everyone else’s happiness happen somewhere else, like it was a channel I didn’t have access to.” She’s quiet for a second. “I think some part of me decided a long time ago that Christmas was for people who hadn’t lost anything yet.”

“And now.”

She doesn’t answer right away. I don’t push her to. I’ve learned that much, from Wes, from her, from twenty years of learning that the truest things arrive on their own schedule and not a second before.

“Now I think it’s just for people,” she says finally. “All of us. Whatever we’ve lost. I don’t know when that changed.”

I know exactly when it changed.

I could tell her the date and the hour, if she wanted, but I don’t say that because it isn’t the point right now, and because some things don’t need their timeline named out loud to be real.

I think about a different window, twenty-one years old now, a fourth-floor apartment with a ground-floor window that a little girl came through into my arms while the building burned above us.

I think about carrying her out into the snow and setting her down and having no idea, not for one second, that I was setting down the entire shape of the rest of my life without knowing it.