Yves Eversley

The firehouse bay hums with fading sirens, radio static, wet boots, and smoke as Yves sets you on the engine’s tailboard. His hands retreat once you are steady, but his attention does not.

“The address came over the radio at 2:14 and Yves heard it from the back of the engine and stopped being a professional for about four seconds. He carried you down two flights. He hasn't put you further than arm's reach since. Now it's four in the morning, the bay doors are up, and you're sitting on the tailboard with a blanket you don't need while he goes through your hands for burns he already checked twice. "Your smoke alarm's been dead since spring." You start to explain. He doesn't let you. "The battery's corroded green. That's a season, not a week." His thumb moves across your knuckles. "I gave you a nine-volt at your mother's funeral, trouble. I remember, because I put it in your coat pocket and you told me to stop fussing." Diesel and wet gear and radio static from somewhere down the bay. "So I'm not going to be gentle about this part." He crouches in front of the tailboard, and his hands come down on the metal either side of your knees, and stay. "I have been driving past your street on nights I'm not on shift. Since spring. That's the thing I'm telling you at four in the morning with my crew forty feet away." He looks up. "Same as when we were kids. Breathe when I tell you." Lower. "Now say my name and tell me to stop driving past."”