“Cole…”
“One of the other guys reached us. We got her outside.”
“Was she hurt?”
He shook his head.
“Smoke inhalation, but nothing serious. They sent her home with her dad a few hours ago.”
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
All afternoon, I had imagined the worst possible version of what had happened.
I had imagined losing my husband.
I had imagined our kitchen empty.
His boots by the door with nobody to wear them.
His coffee mug still sitting in the cabinet.
And now I understood why he had been injured.
He had made a choice.
A terrifying, reckless, completely predictable choice.
A frightened child had been trapped inside.
And my husband had refused to leave her there.
I wiped my cheeks.
“I want to be furious with you.”
“I know.”
“I am furious with you.”
“That seems fair.”
“But…”
I couldn’t finish.
Cole squeezed my fingers.
Then he said,
“That’s not why Ortega looked at you like that.”
I frowned.
“What?”
He shifted carefully against the pillow.
“The department had a command review after the incident.”
I waited.
“And?”
“They pulled the helmet footage. Statements. Radio traffic.”
“Why?”
“Because technically, I ignored a direct withdrawal order.”
My stomach tightened.
“Are you in trouble?”
He almost smiled.
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
He sighed.
“Ortega submitted me for a department citation.”
I stared at him.
“What kind of citation?”
He looked embarrassed.
Which somehow made me even more suspicious.
“Cole.”
“The Valor Medal.”
I blinked.
“The what?”
“Valor Medal.”
I knew enough about the department to understand what that meant.
It wasn’t an employee-of-the-month certificate.
It wasn’t a nice plaque given out at a dinner.
It was one of the department’s highest awards for extraordinary courage during emergency operations.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish.”
“Why would you wish that?”
“Because Ortega is going to turn the ceremony into a circus.”
I stared at my husband lying in a hospital bed with stitches in his head, broken bones, bruises across his face—and somehow he was embarrassed because people might applaud him.
“Wait.”
I pointed at him.
“Did they already approve it?”
He hesitated.
“That’s what Ortega texted me.”
I pulled out my phone.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“You nearly get crushed saving a little girl on your birthday, end up in the hospital, and somehow you’re worried the award ceremony might be uncomfortable?”
“When you say it like that—”
“You are the most ridiculous man alive.”
He smiled faintly.
“But alive.”
That silenced me.
I looked down at our hands.
Then I bent close and kissed him.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Alive.”
His forehead rested against mine.
For a moment, the monitors, hospital lights, and hallway noise faded away.
“I’m proud of you,” I said.
Cole closed his eyes.
“That means more than the medal.”
“And I’m still angry.”
“There she is.”
“And when your ribs heal, we’re having a serious conversation about your emergency-contact paperwork.”
He groaned.
“Can I get injured again instead?”
“No.”
The next morning, Cole was complaining about hospital coffee when someone knocked.
He looked toward the door.
“Come in.”
Captain Ortega stepped inside.
He was holding a bakery box.
I recognized it immediately.
My cake.
Cole saw it too.
“Oh, no.”
Ortega grinned.
