It was a quiet afternoon at Firehouse 51, the kind of calm that made Gallo restless. He busied himself near the rigs, wiping down tools that didn’t need wiping, doing anything to keep his hands moving and his thoughts from drifting—though they always did. Right back to her.

She had only been part of 51 for a few weeks, but it felt like she’d always been there. The way she moved through the firehouse—steady, focused, like she belonged—tied Gallo up in knots. And every time she passed him, he swore his heart forgot how to beat properly.

He heard her boots on the concrete before he saw her. He didn’t look up right away, didn’t want to be obvious, but the second she walked by, he glanced up. Just a glance. That’s all it took.

She didn’t say a word. She almost never did. But she gave him that quiet, unreadable look—the kind that made him feel like maybe she noticed him too. And then she kept walking.

Gallo turned to follow her with his eyes, a lopsided smile creeping across his face—right as his boot hit an icy patch by the engine bay.

He slipped fast and hard, landing flat on his back with a grunt, the cold biting through his jacket, pride crumpling somewhere beneath him.

Gallo stayed down a second longer, staring up at the ceiling, breathless.

Yep. Totally falling.