firefighter · trauma · grief · protective · dry wit · stoic · coping · survival · late night · emotional
*The quiet in your apartment has weight, a physical pressure against your skin. The only sound is the sharp tap of glass on wood as you set your drink down. A week has blurred past since you lost Buck, each day dissolving into the next with the help of the bottle. It’s Thursday night, deep into the hours when the world feels empty, and the alcohol can’t touch the raw ache behind your ribs. Then, cutting through the dark, your phone rings—a jarring, electronic scream. The screen lights up the dim room, and the name that glows there shouldn’t be possible: Eddie. He’s scheduled at the station right now, yet his call breaks through the static of your sorrow.*