That familiar grin was finally back.
“You didn’t think we’d waste perfectly good birthday cake, did you?”
Behind him came Marcus.
Then Jenkins.
Then Patel.
Then half the shift crowded into the doorway.
Marcus was holding the plastic trophy.
Patel carried balloons.
All of them.
The black ones.
The gold ones.
The enormous HAPPY BIRTHDAY balloon.
Cole stared at me.
“You planned this.”
“I absolutely did not.”
Ortega walked to the bed.
“This portion is department-approved retaliation.”
Marcus placed the trophy around Cole’s neck.
Cole looked down at it.
Then read the words aloud.
“World’s Most Stubborn Firefighter.”
The room erupted.
Cole glanced at me.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I almost had a heart attack yesterday. I’ve earned this.”
Someone found plastic forks.
Someone else produced paper plates.
Ortega stuck one candle in the cake because hospital staff had apparently vetoed thirty-six.
“No open flames,” he explained.
Cole stared at him.
“We are firefighters.”
“Exactly why they said no.”
Everyone laughed.
And as I stood beside my husband’s hospital bed, watching his crew insult him, eat his birthday cake, and argue about who had been more terrified during the collapse, something inside me finally settled.
Twenty-four hours earlier, I had imagined a funny surprise.
I had pictured Cole standing beside an engine, pretending to hate the attention.
I had wanted photographs.
A joke.
A memory.
Instead, I had walked into a silent station and discovered how quickly an ordinary life could split into a before and an after.
The party never happened the way I planned.
But that afternoon, Cole was discharged.
I helped him into the passenger seat of our SUV.
He complained about the seat belt.
I told him to stop whining.
He complained about my driving.
I threatened to leave him on the sidewalk.
Everything felt wonderfully ordinary again.
Before I started the engine, he looked at me.
“So… is there any cake left?”
I stared at him.
“You nearly died yesterday.”
“That’s not a no.”
I shook my head.
Then I laughed.
“There are two pieces in the back.”
“I knew I married you for a reason.”
I leaned over and kissed him carefully.
Across town, a seven-year-old girl was home with her father because Cole had refused to walk away when he heard her crying.
And beside me sat the man who had terrified me more than anyone ever had—and made me prouder than I knew how to explain.
The morning before, Cole had stood in our kitchen and warned me not to cause trouble on his birthday.
I had thought I was the dangerous one because I was secretly carrying balloons into his fire station.
Turns out, I should have known better.
When you’re married to a firefighter like Cole Barrett, you can plan the cake.
You can choose the balloons.
