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“Hey, my man, Cam was here the other day.”

My heart pounds. “She was?” I glance at my dad, but he gives nothing away, just smiles, like he was glad to see her too. Did she tell him? Does he know everything? Does he hate me as much as I think she does?

Owen grins. “Yep. I got a hug.”

I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. “Of course you did.”

“Hey, I’m not about to pass up a hug from a pretty girl.”

“Mhm. Still a dirty old man.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, eyeing the fire truck Owen’s hosing down.

I remember being four, begging to go on a call with him and my dad.

The first time I saw Dad in action, saving lives, I thought he was a superhero and wanted to be just like him—until I went to a Mariners game a few weeks later.

After that, I knew my place was on a baseball field.

I still respect the hell out of what Dad does. The selfless way he runs into burning buildings or shows up first at an accident—there’s something almost godlike about it.

Dad leads me past the rigs, air thick with engine grease and the sweetness of soap from freshly washed gear.

In the kitchen, it’s chaos. Lights hum, making everything too bright.

Pots clatter, water hisses, and the air is thick with tomato sauce, browning beef, garlic, and something definitely burning in the oven.

“Brown it slow or it gets tough,” Jay says, wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon. Jay, big beefy dude with jet-black hair and Italian vibes, has been here longer than I’ve been alive and still wants nothing more than to run into fires.

“You want flavor, you need more fat,” Owen argues, already slicing a stick of butter so thick it could clog an artery.

A battered pot bubbles over, steam fogging the window. Someone’s yelling about burning the garlic again, and a rookie’s frantically fanning the smoke detector.

There’s a ritual to spaghetti night at Station 25.

It starts with a salad my grandma made when I was a kid, piled high in a giant metal bowl she still drops off—iceberg lettuce, cherry tomatoes, a lot of fucking black olives, and her secret vinaigrette no one can replicate.

The spaghetti’s not fancy. Cheap noodles and ground beef simmered in enough sauce to feed an army.

Meatballs are for special occasions. Breadsticks—almost definitely Olive Garden knockoffs—sit in a heap, glistening with butter and parmesan.

The kitchen’s loud with arguing and laughter, air thick with garlic, tomato, and cheese. A radio blares classic rock. A rookie trips over a mop bucket and almost takes out the breadsticks, earning boos and threats to make him do all the dishes.

Owen is still arguing with Jay, waving a half-melted spatula. “I’m telling you, the secret’s in the butter. At least a stick. Maybe two.”

Jay rolls his eyes. “You’re just trying to kill us and make us run in turnout gear tomorrow.”

“No shit,” Owen says, grinning.

At the end of the counter, the newest recruit—Probie, which is what they call every newbie until the next one comes along—is hunched over a salad bowl, eyebrows knit together like he’s defusing a bomb.

He’s got the job nobody wants: tossing my grandma’s salad without flinging half of it on the floor.

“Careful, Probie!” someone yells as a tomato escapes and bounces across the tile. “That bowl’s a family heirloom.”

Dad, fueling the chaos, leans over and stage-whispers, “You know, Probie, last time someone dropped that bowl, my mom said the whole station was cursed for a year.”

Probie looks genuinely rattled, hands shaking as he stabs at a rogue olive. “You serious?”

Dad grins. “Oh yeah. Last Probie got stuck on toilet-cleaning for six months.”

Owen scoops up the runaway tomato, pops it in his mouth, and pats Probie on the back. “Relax, kid. If you break it, you just have to tell Jaxon’s grandma.” He winks at me. Probie notices me then.

I shrug, like, good luck. I remember this guy from high school. Used to set fires in the bathrooms just for chaos. Fitting he became a firefighter.

I can’t help but smile. I miss this. Camdyn and I used to sit right here, watching these same guys rib each other, betting on who’d mess up the salad or burn the bread. Some things never change.

A shout goes up when Probie finally gets the salad to the table with only a handful of croutons lost. “Not bad, Probie! Gordon Ramsay material,” Owen calls, earning another round of laughter.

The kitchen’s a mess—flour on the counter, sauce on the stove, a rookie with butter on his shirt—but it’s alive, all sound and heat and the smell of dinner. Someone rips open a bag of pre-shredded parmesan with their teeth. Someone else sneezes from the pepper, setting off a chain groan.

Dad shakes his head, grinning. “Every Tuesday,” he says, not needing to say more.

And for a second, in the middle of all the racket, I remember why this place always felt like home.

We finally wrangle enough chairs around the battered table, everyone fighting for breadsticks. Owen dumps a mountain of spaghetti on each plate, Jay drowns it in sauce. Breadsticks vanish before they hit the table—Probie swears he only took two, but he’s got marinara on both hands.

Dad sits at the head, watching the circus with his fire chief face, pretending to be in charge. “Alright, gentlemen, let’s not burn the place down before dessert.”

As soon as I sit, the questions start.

“So, Jaxon,” Jay says through a mouthful, “gonna make us proud this season or should we start rooting for the Cougs?”

“Careful,” Dad pipes up, “I’ll make you run laps for saying Cougs in this house.”

I shrug, twirling spaghetti. “We’ll see.” I keep it simple. With a 27-22 record, anything can happen. No clue if we’ll snag a playoff spot.

“Hey,” someone calls, “where’s your other half? I thought she’d be here stealing breadsticks.”

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. Dad raises an eyebrow, just a twitch, but I see it. He knows what happened, and he knows I’m about to get grilled.

“Yeah, man, where’s Cam?” Jay asks. “Heard she’s got ten no-hitters this season.”

I know all Camdyn’s stats. ERA of .86, 24 wins, 5 losses. 245 strikeouts, three no-hitters, two perfect games. Thirteen home runs, one of the only pitchers to hit a homer and throw a no-hitter in the same game.

“She could out-eat any of you,” I mutter, and the table erupts. Someone starts in with an impression of Camdyn smuggling breadsticks in her backpack—okay, true, but she always said she was “saving them for later.”

Jay elbows me. “She dump you, Jax? ‘Cause if so, you tell her my number’s still the same.”

“Better chance of her dating Probie,” Owen snorts, and everyone howls because Probie’s wearing his salad as a tie and looks ready to switch careers or ask me for her number.

I shake my head, trying to play it cool. “She’s busy. It’s the middle of the season.”

Dad gives me a look that says: If you want to talk, I’ll listen. But he doesn’t push. He knows better than to ask in front of the peanut gallery.

“Hey, Jax,” Jay says, “remember last year when you and Camdyn tried to teach us that card game and Owen lost twenty bucks in five minutes?”

Owen groans. “Scam, and you know it. Dalton taught her to hustle as soon as she was born. Face of an angel, poker instincts of a shark.”

“That’s why she’s not here tonight,” Ollie calls, “she’s at a casino, fleecing tourists.”

I snort, and for a second, the ache in my chest loosens. I remember those nights—Camdyn’s laugh echoing off these greasy tiles, trying to distract us with stories while she stacked the deck, making this place feel like more than a firehouse.

The conversation shifts to who’s on shift next holiday and whether Jay set the bread on fire last Thanksgiving (he did), but every so often, Dad catches my eye. He’ll wait. He always does.

Probie tries for another breadstick, only to get swatted by Finn, another firefighter, with salad tongs. “Sorry, kid—those are for winners.”

I lean back, room buzzing with laughter and stories, and think: If Camdyn were here, she’d be rolling her eyes and stealing the last breadstick anyway.

One day, maybe she will be again.

The table’s chaos—someone’s dumped garlic bread straight onto the table, and the spaghetti comes in a stock pot that looks like it’s survived a few fires.

“Hey, Probie, you forgot to strain the noodles,” Owen says, holding up a spaghetti strand that’s basically soup. “We eating pasta or swimming in it?”

“Just building your immune system,” Probie shoots back, grinning. “Hydration’s important.”

Somewhere, Jay dumps an entire bottle of parmesan onto Probie’s lap, and when he stands, a white dust cloud erupts.

“You look like you crawled out of a flour mill,” Dad teases, earning a round of hoots.

When dessert shows up—a lopsided pan of brownies—there’s an immediate standoff. “Nobody touch these till we ID whose hair that is,” someone says, peering at a suspicious strand.

The laughter is loud, genuine, and for the first time in days, I let myself get swept up in it.

The guys keep it going, trading stories about calls gone wrong, glitter bombs in helmets, and a story about me being conceived on the truck.

There are plenty of stories that both me and my sister were conceived here.

We laugh it off—honestly, it’s probably true.

Every now and then, a pang cuts through the noise—Camdyn and I used to come here all the time. We’d squeeze around this table, try to outdo each other with breadstick stunts, sneak cookies when no one was looking.

Now, it’s just me.

The guys start clearing out—Jay and Finn arguing over whose turn it is to do dishes (Probie loses, obviously).

The kitchen empties, noise fading like a dimmer switch, until it’s only me and Dad at the table, surrounded by empty plates and the lingering smell of garlic.