He looked through the window into the bay, morning light pooling around Talia as she checked her air pack. Sleeves pushed up, gloss gleaming, buckles shining—reminders of last night’s violence.
“I have training,” he said.
“Work always comes first.”
Click.
She was gone.
He sat there with the dial tone in his ear and the roar of his blood behind his eyes.
The events of last night still clung to him like smoke—impossible to scrub clean.
Talia
She noticed everything about him this morning. The clenched jaw. The way he twisted his wedding band when he thought no one was watching.
He was pulling away.
Good. Let him.
She twisted her bun tighter, fingers grazing the dahlias inked on her forearm. She reapplied her gloss—orange, bergamot, smoke—each layer a raised middle finger.
She wasn’t going to be anyone’s mistake.
And she hated Watts. Not just for being slow on scene. Not just for mediocrity.
For being dangerous.
It started the only time they’d ever ridden together. Last shift on the ambulance. Male, late 20s. Altered mental status. Police already on scene.
He was hogtied on the curb, drooling. Eyes wild. Foaming at the edge of his mouth.
“Spice,” a cop muttered. “Tried to eat through a door.”
Talia leapt out, adrenaline thrumming—checked vitals—tachycardic, twitchy, pupils blown. The guy lunged, teeth bared.
“He needs something to calm him down,” she said. “I’m giving Versed.” She glanced at Watts—arms crossed, blank stare, watching. “You good with that?”
Watts shrugged. “You’re the AIC.”
She drew the dose, sedated him, stabilized him.
It should’ve ended there.
But it didn’t.
Later, Jake Hastings from Engine 12 leaned over his coffee, voice low. “Just a heads up. Watts told the ER doc you dosed that guy too high. Called it reckless.”
“What?”
“She said she wasn’t comfortable.”
“She watched me draw it up. Never said a word.”
She stormed to the EMS room, blood pounding. Watts was coiling an O2 line, just like any other day.
“You got something to say about my call?” Talia snapped. “Say it to me. Not the doctor.”