Three

A/N: I'm here! So, so sorry it's late but I did my best to stay up last night but I couldn't keep my eyes from closing any longer so I slept instead and woke up early to finish it. I've been super excited about this chapter because I've prepped it for the longest time. It's pretty long too but that's what we like. hehe. I'm not sure about the update for the next Sunday because I'll be having another busy week but I'll keep you guys updated on Instagram (hisangelchip) hehe. Enjoy!

[Leroy]

His hands were cold. I felt them through the back of my shirt. I still feel them now.

They would freeze out in the open; even in the summer, the sun was cold and the skies, they felt like they were constantly left behind. The kind of grey that didn't show up on paintings or pictures because no palette was ever willing to have that kind of color near the pretty red or bright, blinding yellow; no camera ever raised to a slate that cast everything else in the same shade of down.

I like London that way.

The streets are cool. I know them pretty well. The motorcycle helped, but it started from riding around in the engine all day, in the back, where the rookies sat. And then gradually moving up front to where I am now—the captain's seat, beside the engineer. They drive. I'm on the lookout most of the time.

Everything beats the kind of view you have in the kitchen. Which is none, by the way. There are no windows. The only ones we have belong on the double doors to the vestibule leading to the dining area. You look at the guests; the guests look at you. That's the kind of view you get in the kitchen.

Siegfried likes it. He liked the attention; that he was the one being looked at, and not the one looking. I get it now. Kind of. I get that it's hard looking at backs and having to keep looking at them and waiting for them to turn so that you could see their face or at least the ripples in their eyes but that they seemed kind of far anyway. It's hard being the one. The one left behind.

It's good, though—sometimes. I left him behind too, the one who used to believe that things would work out and that food could bring people together, close distances, fill hearts like they fill stomachs, that being the person others wanted me to be was something I could put up with. Live the rest of my life for.

Siegfried left that guy behind. Instructors left that guy behind. People who respected that guy left him behind. I left him behind.

"Here again on your day off? What a loser."

I'd headed for the firehouse, station twelve, right after dropping him off at his office. Emil's the guard on duty. He got the gates to open, letting my bike pass. I gave him the finger. He laughed and did the same. "They're messing up lunch inside so you might wanna give them a hand. Oh yeah, and there's the new guy."

I rode further in, parked, and headed for the back door past the engine bay. I do the usual—leave my gear in the bay, drop by our BC's office, knock once, nod, leave the chief to do his reports, then continue down the hallway to the kitchen. At the turn, I ran into Zales. Longest-serving engineer at station twelve.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" She opened with a hand slamming into my back. "Stop coming back. Get some sleep for god's sake."

I gave her the same old response, casually brushing it off. Sleep is for the weak. "The rookie?"

"You know how they're like. Probably listening to Jaeger's stories in the commons while the rest of the crew make lunch." She downed her coffee, black, in one go before letting me off and continuing in the direction she was heading. "Oh, and he brought donuts, so. Sucks for you."

It's a tradition. Probies bring something in for the crew on their first day and for some reason, they always seem to think sweet treats are the way to go; like they're safe or something. Parker brought in ice cream. The one before him got cinnamon pretzels.

I got to the doorway leading to the living area, where we had our communal kitchen, dining table and couches for chilling. As usual, the crew wasn't the kind to keep their voices limited to a single space.

"Ay, look who's here. The man who got his ass on fire just this mornin'." Jaeger, after taking one look over his shoulder and returning to the new face beside him. I went up to them. Probie stood just as I started walking over, bowing his head and extending a hand over the back of the couch.

"Good afternoon sir. Firefighter Jack Vance," he introduced with a firm shake. "First day here and uh... looking forward to the good stuff. I brought donuts. Help yourself to some. And uh, I asked to help out in the kitchen but..."

Jaeger and a couple other crew members in the kitchen were laughing. It's no surprise; some stations could get pretty territorial over their meals and if you weren't a professional chef or something before coming to the firehouse, you'd be forgiven for not helping out for the first week until you learned the basics.

"Good luck," I told him.

"Hey Cox get your ass over here and help us with the mince."

"I can do that," Vance was stepping up like every other rookie on their first day, on their toes to help out with everything around but our station's generally chill with first-day-performance. As long as they listened to instructions, things were okay. "Just the beef, right?"

"Relax mate he's a pro. You have no idea," Jung held up a hand to stop him from going over to the kitchen, gesturing in my direction with the vague message of 'get your ass over to the kitchen.' Which I did. "The guy's an expert at chopping up all kinds of shit. Takes seconds to finish an onion and doesn't—"

The phone rang.

"I got it!" He was up and swooping in to answer, scrambling, again. Jumping over the couch. Practically sprinting for the ring.

"Is he ladder or engine?" I asked, picking up a spatula and seasoning the meat with salt and pepper at the same time.

"Engine." Jung confirmed, turning to me with a weird grin on his face. "So what happened this morning eh? Your detector went off."

I snorted, musing privately but pushing his face out of the way so that he'd focus on the shallots he had to dice. "Just someone trying to burn my kitchen down."

"Oh. Your dog?"

"Human."

"Oh woah woah." Almost at once, I had all eyes on me. "You got a girl?"

It was hard to look anyone in the eye so I was back staring at seasoned beef, ready to hit the pan. "Just an old friend."

"Thought we had to sue you for a moment," Jaeger said from the couch just as Probie was done with the phone call. "But uh, if you do, it's fine as long as you don't end up like Parker over there texting every minute or so when we're not on call."

It's some sort of curse, by the way. You learn that it is after some time. Any mention of a slow day or something moderately relaxed; of not being on a call, on runs...

A beeping over the sound system. The moment it comes on at any time of the day, we're pausing and listening for the emergency: "MVA." Then we're dropping whatever it is we were doing—Parker closing the fridge, Jung turning off the gas, washing our hands, heading out and down the hallway, past the door and into the vehicle bay where the trucks and engines were.

MVAs could be big. Some car accidents didn't just involve a dent in the side; I'm talking rollovers or head-on collisions between trucks and motorcycles. Others that involve battery leaks or mass vehicles like buses and more than twenty casualties. They could use an extra hand, especially with a rookie on board.

"Who's on ladder?"

"Me and Parker. Zales has Jaeger and Probie-boy."

"I'll come."

"Ladder?" Jung looked hopeful.

"Engine," I decided. "Help the rookie out." At least the back-up gear set I'd readied in the bay before heading in minutes earlier was coming in handy. No surprises, though. It's the usual routine on my days off. I jump right into the gear and strap up. Ready to go.

"What the actual fuck," the captain of our ladder company liked roasting his crew for no reason. But it was the way most of us liked to communicate. "You're in a good mood today eh, 'helping out' Jaeger with Vance. You sure whoever set your kitchen on fire's just a friend?"

I snorted. He knew, at the rate I was going, coming by on rest days and whatnot, that I practically lived at the firehouse. "Who's the nice guy."

"Yeah," Jung laughed. "I am."

We split up, heading for different vehicles. I got into engine with Zales in the driver's seat, her usual as the engineer, and Jaeger beside her as captain. Rookie and I were in the back.

"Your first call?" I asked him.

"No uh, we had a couple of medical ones this morning. Three. First MVA though," he grinned nervously. "Hope it's not a bad car crash or something."

"You'll live." We strapped in and Zales was off as soon as the gates were rolled up high enough for a pass. That's how familiar she is with whatever she's driving.

"Fire twelve, Ladder twelve we have a reported collision at the Whateley-Crystal intersection. EMS from Brixton's in the area and heading to..."

The thing about emergency responding in a city like this was that there's never really some form of an off-peak. It's bad all-day, twenty-four seven. Especially for a station like ours with a high run volume; so much so that on some days, the captain had to hop out re-directing traffic on open roads, getting the cars up front to move out of the way.

We end up getting flipped off by cyclists or jay-walking pedestrians. Nice to know how much people hate us.

"North. And on Rodwell—go left on Rodwell otherwise we're cuttin' all those places. Copy ladder twelve." "Fire twelve." "Ladder twelve, medic ten we're on the scene we have two cars no fire damage we'll be out investigating."

Engine arrived in six minutes tops, pulling up at the intersection for the crew to hop out. "A four-door sedan, T-boned by a taxi." "Moderate entrapment." "Conscious and alert." "We'll be needing full access on the driver's side."

Probie's following me out the engine from the right, forgetting to remove his headphones so I could tell his nerves were on fire and needed directions for comfort. I told him to get a hose ready.

"Oh but there's no fire," he blinked. I told him that we do it anyway just in case there's battery damage or a leak we don't know about; and we don't wanna find out the hard way.

Jaeger was already up front pulling out the step chocks and wedges to get started on stabilizing the vehicle that got slammed into. Jung and Parker were at the scene for a couple minutes more than us, doing patient and casualty assessments. Zales was moving the engine into position for safety and as a roadblock. A couple of paramedics from the Brixton firehouse, too, were on the scene as flaggers.

After readying the hose, Probie and I hit the parameters for a closer look at the collision. It was the job of the remaining crew members to secure the power of all vehicles involved in the accident. In other words, find the car batteries and ensure they weren't active. That, and prepare or devise the most efficient way to get the casualty out of entrapment. I stood and observed for some few seconds.

"Get a hydraulic spreader. We'll start with the rear door."

"The rear?" Rookie checked the seats in the back. "But no one's in there. The victim's in the driver's seat."

"It's a modern. Which means high-strength structural steel over the passenger and driver's seat. You can't start with the front like the old cars you guys train with in the academy. So in cases like these you start with the rear, pop it open, make the relief cut and then go for the B-post."

His eyes went round and wide, gleaming. True mark of an adrenaline addict, seeking a thrill. "So you get full access to the side?" He laid out to confirm.

"Yeah."

"Wow. Cool." Then he was off fetching the spreader and I watched him go, recalling my first MVA for the next second or two. It was a rollover. I still remember it. The victim was a thirty-two-year-old female with two kids and a puppy—drink-driving.

The dog's mine now. 'Cuz no one else made it out.

===========

It was after the extrication and further patient assessment that we sent the casualties involved to the hospital for final checks. They were lucky to come out unscathed; one of them had practically ran into the other's side but thank fucks for the speed he was going at or the car on the receiving end of the T-bone wouldn't have made it out in a recognizable form. Either way, we left them to Brixton's EMS and headed home.

Station twelve's engine and ladder company had a routine. If we were out on a run and on our way back without an urgent call, we'd drop by the same Sainsbury's up Dog Kennel Hill for some speed shopping. Jaeger'd be the one to suggest the side trip.

"Oh yea let's hit the store," he said to Zales who was driving. "We're out of snacks and coffee's low. Good to show the rookie our usual place too so that he'd get the hang of the speed we grab stuff."

"Dude, weren't you guys in the middle of making lunch?" Zales snorted, rolling her eyes but making the turn regardless. She signaled and radioed ladder company behind us to follow. Instantly, they knew what was up.

Jaeger was making a verbal list of what to get, the coffee brands our station prefers and the kind of snacks we picked that wouldn't mess with our system. Our station's chiefs had work out regimes and PT goals for every individual crew member, so keeping in shape was important across the board.

We were nearing the store when another call dropped. EMS; fall victim. It wasn't the kind of situation that required an extra hand but I was on board the engine anyway, so Zales made the turn and we were heading straight to the coordinates stated on the tablet.

Thirty minutes later, we were on our way back on track to Sainsbury's and we actually got to parking, heading into the store with no baskets, carts whatsoever, and splitting up for an efficient combing of the aisles. They'd usually put me on fresh ingredients if we needed any, but shift A (my shift, the seventy-two before the current shift on duty) had done the shopping prior to today's change, so we were generally well-stocked.

So I was picking out microwavable rice pots when my pager started to beep, and I could hear the high-pitched tone of the others in the rest of the store. People turned to look. Then the emergency came in and there it was. Fire.

"Yo we haven't had a real one in days." No one really cared if it was another run in the middle of doing something else; we were hyped. Uh, common firefighter behaviour but we're not actually looking forward to seeing people burned alive, we just like the burning.

I'm kidding.

Anyway, we were dropping whatever it was on our minds and heading for the counters. Probie was excited. "They say it's good luck to experience a fire call on your first day."

I shrugged.

"Aight boys just leave them here," the manager of the store, who'd spotted us coming in and would always open up a new counter just for our bill, knowing how fast we needed to get things done before an emergency call drops, pointed at the belt of an empty counter. It was his way of saying we could pick up where we left off after the call. "Cheers!"

We were back in respective vehicles, jumping into our gear with mic and headphones on, driving off with sirens blasting and the occasional air horn. Zales loved the noise. You also get to see nice people scramble out of the way and stubborn idiots continue to cut into our lane. Still, it's not too bad, where we were headed; especially in the afternoon residential area when everyone's at w—

"Ladder twelve. Fire twelve. False alarm, we got burnt food." Three minutes in and this came on the radio. We were sighing in no time. Probie laughed, closing his eyes with his hands over his face. Jaeger groaned in disappointment. "Fire twelve copy we're heading back to the store."

We did just that and finished up the grocery run, paying for a shit ton of snacks and canned stuff before finally making it back to the station to continue with lunch. By then, it was nearly three.

The crew got lucky for the next twenty-minutes or so. We were somehow able to get the food out in ten and then spend another luxurious ten having a meal without any runs. Ten-minutes was kind of a record breaker. Usually, lunch was five or six minutes tops.

When they got called in for a hyperventilation EMS though, I stayed to do the dishes. They didn't need an extra man for that. And then it was another call for a minor MVA on their way back so I kinda just chilled on the couch with the new batch of snacks we got from the store. Some curry chips—they call them crisps here—that were new on the shelves. They were pretty addictive. Most spicy stuff are, to me.

They returned just in time to see me finish a bag and sulked for five seconds until I told them to open another one. Most of us end up on the couch, in front of the TV that had nothing else but a news channel on cable, or at the dining table with a work laptop for reports. Parker and the new guy were on their phones exchanging social media handles. Twitter and Instagram.

They were laughing their heads off about something and most of us were just counting the seconds to them sharing the joke. I expected something dry and lame. That, or dark humor. We're known for that, by the way. Laughing at the weirdest shit.

"Hey, check this out. Philip Andre had his ass handed to him on this review... the critic gave him a two out of five."

People in London generally know who Andre was. Kind of like Gordon Ramsay's name, but on a smaller scale that wasn't global. And for a different reason.

I'd worked in Andre's kitchen as mise en place for a couple of months in his Michelin star five years back, right after he won some reality cooking competition on TV a year before and became a celebrity chef. His win was a tad controversial. The season had been basically a shitshow and Andre was known for his short temper on camera, as much as he had a knack for coming up with cool dishes.

He was an acquaintance of Siegfried. Which was how I got the job after the guy gradually realized that my tastebuds for sweet things just weren't going to come back at a snap of his fingers.

Then, I'd quit. Started fire academy. And then had my first fire call—it was for Andre's kitchen. Think I had to hide the look on my face from finding the entire thing so fucking hilarious 'cuz everyone, including his staff, knew that he wasn't fully-versed in safety. I'd reminded him a couple of times about hiring actual professionals to clean the hoods that were clogged with oil. They could light up an entire kitchen with a tiny grease fire.

"Aw man. I was gonna bring my girlfriend there next month on her birthday. I thought his reviews were decent."

"When he first started, yeah. My mom made me go with her once and the food was pretty good, not gonna lie," Zales shrugged. "Heard him diss his staff in the kitchen though. He likes raising his voice."

"The review's not even that bad." Parker had passed his phone to Jaeger, who was in the middle of scrolling through the replies on Twitter and clicking on whatever links he found.

"It is though," Rookie held up his phone and I caught a glimpse of the headline splayed in caps.

PHILIP ANDRE SHITS THE BED, SKEWERED BY NEW CRITIC IN TOWN

Tabloid. Their titles suck as usual and I wasn't honestly wasn't surprised. Andre liked to say he was the next Gordon Ramsay but who was he kidding. There were only three restaurants in London with three Michelin stars; Ramsay's was one of them. Andre's, meanwhile, had been stuck at one for three years.

"You're looking at a tabloid's headline, mate," Jung laughed, slapping Vance on his back. The guy squinted at his phone.

"Oh right. What's the original?"

"I dunno. Some fancy English or something."

"You say that, but you're English."

"I'm half-Korean and that is my excuse."

"What's so good about that chef anyway?" Parker was from LA, and after doing a year of studies here, he'd apparently dropped out and found he liked selling his soul to the Fire and EMS gods upstairs. "Is he that big of a deal?"

I mean, he had a big-ass ego that was a recipe for success on reality TV and his food was, back then, novel and provided a fresh take on culinary innovation, so. Whatever happened after that, I wasn't clear on but I've always thought he was the kind of chef and human being who'd never consider the possibility of himself being the one in the wrong. He doesn't apologize; doesn't think anyone's entitled to an opinion except his own. Add that to how easy he loses it and a lack of maturity, people were entertained at the cost of his kitchen staff and the people around him. Either way, my time in the kitchen was over.

And the closest I would ever get to one was if I had to put a fire out.

*

Five was nearing. And for a miraculous thirty minutes or so, the station has been a graveyard. It was rare, days like these, fooling around in the gym with some members of the crew while others were upstairs taking a nap, and some just lounging on the couch with their phones. I was on the treadmill, staring out the window with a minute left on the timer.

At the beep, I'd hop out of the gym and leave the station, biking back for a nice shower before spending some time picking out decent clothing. The text he sent with a map attached said to come dressed for fine dining. I could take my time getting down there and still have enough time to look for a good parking spot. Maybe arrive earlier than he would, just to change it up a little. Surprise him.

Depends on the shower. And the clothes. The last time I wore something decent was five years ago at a dinner party for celebrity chefs who were launching some collaborative initiative with vineyards and farmers across the world. I could barely recall where that white button-down went. Not to mention that grey tie. Kinda need that. And which was easier to remove: a button-down or a polo? Polos don't seem like fine-dining attire. Removing upwards or popping buttons one by one? Both had their perks.

"You know," said Probie all of a sudden when the timer on my treadmill started beeping and came to a gradual stop. "It's a little quiet today huh."

All of a sudden, everyone's looking at him with wide-fucking eyes and fuck, the sound system comes on as though on cue and blasts the fire alarm. What the dude just did was literally pray to the fire gods; who actually answered.

Then, we were dropping everything and making a break for the door, the stairs and then the hallway down to the vehicle bay and jumping into our gear. Even the BC was out of his office, heading for his own vehicle: the fire car. A red SUV.

"It's real?" Rookie was laughing nervously, fumbling with his straps that needed some serious tightening. I pointed them out.

"Well it better be," Jaeger hopped into the captain's seat, scrolling the tablet and zooming in on the coordinates. Zales was already belted and ready to floor the accelerator. "Probably is, though. BC's being radio-ed and he looked pretty serious about it. Driving off pretty quick too."

"Ladder twelve, fire twelve, medic ten's on the scene from being out on the call we have a structural on Elliot's Row in Elephant and Castle. Fire three's in Pimlico on an MVA, Fire six is in Mayfair on EMS. Ladder twelve, fire twelve, you're on the scene in five minutes. Fire three and six are on RIT. Traffic's bad down Newington and Walworth all the way down Camberwell—"

I was in the back, looking out for incoming vehicles the two up front might miss at any point in time, blasting the air horn and possibly tunnel visioning with all that adrenaline. It was hard not to focus everything on getting there as fast as possible—road safety was key. Five o'clock meant that everyone was on their way home and traffic made out of people putting themselves first was not the most welcoming to wailing sirens.

"Stop cutting me off, for fuck's sake," Zales cursed under her breath and I could hear Jaeger winding down the window on his side, signaling to the drivers up front to let us through. Behind us was our ladder company in the fire truck, and I looked up just in time to see, in the rearview mirror, someone cutting trying to cut into their lane.

So far, I counted six tickets to be sent out.

"On your left," I called out. A blue Ford Fiesta was speeding down the intersection to our left to beat the red while Zales had a clear road for full speed with sirens to head straight. "Your left. Left left left left—"

She braked and swerved several feet away from the Ford crashing into our side just as his light turned red and ours, green. Emergency vehicles always have right of way but it wasn't uncommon to have people trying to kill us every now and then. That dude came close.

"Holy f U C K ing shit that bloody moron! What the hell was that one thinking?"

Zales was close to rolling down her window and giving everyone in the area a good finger had we not been on a call. Us braking also nearly had the firetruck behind us colliding with our rear.

"Can't we give them a hundred tickets and send them to jail or something?" Probie. Jaeger said something about it being the usual; that all we could do, really, was to be on the lookout for psychos like that one.

We arrive on the scene after the continuous blasting of air horns and Jaeger having to get out of his seat to redirect traffic and already, there'd been a huge crowd gathered in front of the five-floor structure just staring up at the damn thing. One look at the color of the smoke was enough to tell what was going on inside.

"Fire twelve, Ladder twelve we've got a mid-stage burn and high velocity smoke. Class B synthetics and structure burning. Victims think it's coming from the second floor. No reported casualties or entrapment."

There were flames burning out a ventilated window on the second floor and flashes of red and orange on the third. Smoke came in big, thickened puffs of dark grey. Zales was out as soon as we pulled up, starting towards the control panel on the side of the vehicle. Jaeger, as captain on the shift, made for the hose and is the first to get into the heat. He's got four minutes. That's how long the water stored up in the engine lasts.

I knew where the nearest hydrant was without looking for it. You get used to knowing where they'd be. My eyes had went instantly to where it should've been before we'd even pulled up but it was blocked by a car parked right in front of it. I grabbed a hammer.

Not again.

"Where's the hydrant?" Rookie was out on the other side, grabbing the big-ass hose and running towards me while I was headed for the car. I could hear the station's BC on the radio, knowing what I was about to do. Somewhere behind, medic flaggers were making way for the ladder company.

"Behind that BMW."

We get to it and I was right. The driver had parked their car so closely to the curb that there was barely five inches between the side of it and the hydrant. Stupid fucker.

"Sir there's no way the hose can run water at the pressure we need. We'd have to twist it with the car in the way and it'd eventually kink up," Vance was laying out textbook terms and he wasn't wrong. Threading the hose under or around the car would lose half the volume and pressure of the water we'd get without doing that. The structure was of decent height and the fire was no longer at its initial stages. We needed this hydrant. "What do we do? Find another one?"

"Fire twelve Captain, two minutes on water. Two minutes." "Fire twelve Capt copy."

I held the hammer upside down, turning away and driving the back end of its head through the window on the passenger's side. The security alarm went off. I tossed the hammer in Probie's direction, nodding at the driver's, then began to unscrew the cap on the hydrant. He looked shocked. But also excited.

"Holy shit." He broke the window in one swing and reached in to hand me the hose from the other side. I hooked it up and turned the hydrant on.

"Fire twelve we've got water but pressure's low. RIT should be arriving in three minutes."

I checked the hose. As expected, threading it through the window wasn't going to cut it. The hose was still kinked up because the distance between the side of the car and the hydrant was basically nothing. To put things into perspective: losing water pressure would mean that the guy up front wasn't going to be supplied water at a decent rate and could be dangerous in fires that were big. Kinked-up hoses might even cut off water supply completely.

We had to move the car.

"Mate, you need a hand?" Some guy, a civilian standing by, saw the kink in the hose and started towards us. Someone else walking by stopped to watch.

I nodded. "Could you help us move this?"

Probie was having the time of his life moving the car. A couple of other bystanders helped and eventually, we got it further out so that the hose threading through the windows wouldn't kink up and pressure was running smooth. We got radio-ed, and jumped right in to help the captain with the fire.

The heat had caused half the stairs between the second and third floor to collapse and by the time we'd dealt with the flames and ensured the source was tamed and put out, it was six in the evening and everything around us was black and soot and black. Outside, the medics were assessing casualties and the bunch of us in the structure climbed out of the window onto the tower ladder since half the stairs were missing.

Our station battalion chief was wrapping things up outside when our eyes met and his jaw dropped.

"Cox? Mate, you're—get the fuck outta here, man. You just did your seventy-two! Why the hell are you still awake and running calls? Get some sleep, holy shit you need to stop showing up all the time for no reason or you'll burn out one day. Jung, give the boy a ride in the SUV and come pick me up after. Make sure he's out of the firehouse."

I'd laughed. Usually, I'd turn him down since I was already on the scene anyway but it was thirty minutes to the call time we agreed upon and I was covered in soot and sweat.

Jung gave me a ride back to the firehouse and I was in the shower, shampooing and scrubbing in minutes flat, throwing on whatever I had in my dorm room, and out the door by six-twenty. I put my phone on GPS and rode down to the location only to realize, upon turning into the driveway leading to the underground parking area—fuck, it's posh.

I spent the next couple of minutes taking in how underdressed I was. He'd said fine-dining, yeah, but I wasn't expecting a five-star hotel in Knightsbridge. I was in jeans. A bomber jacket. A T-shirt. I parked and headed up to the restaurant and already, I was getting looks from the staff in the lobby and reception. Then, it was the dread walking up to the entrance of the restaurant because fuck, I'd had a long day, and fuck I was going to disappoint him. Again.

"Good evening sir, how may I help you?"

The guy receiving guests outside was polite but I could tell he'd stopped me because of my dress code. The waitresses behind him were staring at me weirdly. "I'm meeting someone..."

"My apologies sir but it seems you don't meet the dress code, unfortunately. May we propose—"

"He's with me."

It was a lake, he was. I'd been in the heat all day and somehow forgotten what it was like to skim the surface of his waters or dive right into the cold. It had been a long, long day.

He'd seen me coming from afar, I assumed. He spoke to the manager who'd come by with an apologetic smile on his face, dress shirt perfectly pressed and tie done up the way he was so used to doing it. Flawless. He was slim. Taller, now, but still a couple of inches below my eye. Also sharper, unlike the snowflake he used to be. Now, an icicle.

Then I saw the suspenders, just a glimpse of it as he was speaking to the manager and adjusting his blazer. They were the ones I got him. Years ago. Christmas.

"Would you be so kind to allow for an exception? We'd be alright with sitting out on the balcony instead, if that would make your guests more comfortable. We are truly, very sorry."

I was embarrassed. Naturally. I was late; not up to standard; kind of a mess. Nearly died two times in a day, too. But

at least I get to see him.