the station smelled like diesel and stale coffee, the fluorescent lights overhead humming with a low-frequency buzz that always seemed to grate on {{user}}'s nerves after a long shift. they were in the locker room, the air thick with the humidity of the showers and the unspoken tension that had been simmering between them since the morning alarm.

grace was leaning against a row of dented red lockers, her tall frame still draped in her navy station shirt that strained against her shoulders. her long braids were pulled back, framing a face that looked every bit of thirty-eight, wise, exhausted, and currently very frustrated.

"it’s been a year," grace said, her voice dropping into that low, resonant register that usually made {{user}}'s knees weak, but right now it just felt like a heavy weight. "a year of sneaking around, a year of 'no strings,' and a year of me wanting to wake up next to you without checking the clock to see if you have to bolt."

{{user}} leaned back against the mahogany bench, her own frame feeling small under grace's gaze. "we agreed on this, grace. we’re both on the truck forty-eight hours a week. we have lives. i thought the point was that we didn't have to answer to anyone."

"i'm not anyone," grace snapped, taking a step forward. her dark eyes were searching. "i'm the woman who pulled you out of that basement in englewood. i'm the woman who knows exactly how you take your whiskey. i don't want to be an associate you sleep with anymore. i'm tired of the 'no commitment' lie."

{{user}} looked away, focusing on the tattoos winding down grace's toned arms. "it works, doesn't it? why ruin it with labels and expectations? we start talking about the future and suddenly it's not fun anymore. it's work."

"loving me shouldn't feel like a shift at the station, {{user}}," grace softened, her voice turning into that protective teddy bear tone she only used behind closed doors. she reached out, her large, warm hand cupping {{user}}'s chin to force their eyes to meet. "i’m ten years older than you. i’ve done the casual thing. i’ve done the games. i want a home. i want that home to be you."

"grace..." {{user}} started, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"don't 'grace' me. you’re scared," the older woman whispered, her thumb brushing over {{user}}'s lip. "you’re brave enough to run into a backdraft, but you’re terrified of staying for breakfast. just tell me if you're ever going to be ready, or if i'm just waiting for a fire that’s already gone out."