The fire truck lurched to a stop in the vehicle bay, jostling Haustin's sore body, and he groaned, biting his tongue to keep from lashing out at Carl's heavy brake foot. Not the guy's fault his back felt like it'd been tap-danced on. Four hours of nonstop calls, one right after the other. Two gas leaks, a water main break, a nasty car crash, and a big fire, one where they got stuck with cleaning up, hauling damn furniture to the curb and gutting the ceilings and walls to make sure no trace of fire lingered. Haustin slid from the rig, stretching the kinks from his muscles. Each step felt as though he was sloughing through knee deep mud and his joints cracked in protest. His years on the job were catching up to him, and it sent him flirting with an epic bad mood. Getting old sucked, not being able to do the job he loved sucked worse.

After hanging his bunker jacket on its peg, he stepped outside to call Lindsey. They hadn't spoken since he dropped his emotional bomb in her kitchen and he wanted to check-in. She'd been a constant presence in his mind, her voice in his ear, her touch on his skin when she'd soothed his injuries. It was driving him mad, considering he should be more attentive to his current relationship. All last night he'd had to work to put himself in the moment with Yael, not let his conscience wander to his marriage.

"Haustin?" she greeted.

"Hi. I, uh, how are you?"

"Good, you?"

"Bone tired. Busy shift." He searched for something to add but came up with nothing. Thankfully, Lindsey broke the uncomfortable silence before it suffocated him.

"Are you okay?"

"Jittery." Haustin sighed. "Not sure if it's the exhaustion, lingering hangover, or the fact I haven't had a pill in twenty-four hours. Whatever it is, it's kicking my ass."

"Well, if it's the latter, I'm proud of you. As long as you don't forget, it'll only get harder."

"That's what I keep hearing," he muttered. "So, about the other night—"

"Let me stop you there. I know you're beating yourself up about it, doing your guilt thing, but it was good, Haustin. I'm glad you finally opened up to me."

"Better late than never?"

"I know you're being sarcastic, but yes, exactly. At least I know what it was that took you from me."

From the day they were married, she'd possessed the trait of knowing right where to hit him, and he found himself asking, "Would it have been easier if it was a woman instead?"

"Yes."

He blinked in surprise. "Why?"

"If it was someone else, I would have known how to fight. A person is easier to compete with than something I can't see or punch."

Haustin chuckled, despite the image of Lindsey and Yael engaging in a mud fight. Then, he sobered. "Wonder where we'd be now if I'd just opened up to you?"

"I don't know." He heard her breath hitch and it triggered another wave of nausea. "We'd be talking about what to have for dinner tonight instead of deeper stuff."

"I do miss your meatballs."

"They're Miles' favorite, too." Lindsey paused. "I should let you go. I'll talk to you later."

Haustin stared at the phone after the call ended. Later. How about that? He was looking forward to it. Tucking his cell in the pocket of his pants, he headed to the kitchen with a bounce in his step, intending to make a very large sandwich, or two, to refuel. Hopefully, there'd be time to finish eating before the next alarm. Of course, his jittery hands probably had more to do with the withdrawal than actual hunger. The previous night he'd spent an hour on his hands and knees in front of the toilet, praying to the porcelain gods and trying not to wake Yael. This whole pill-free thing was kicking his ass, but his determination was stronger, more so now since it seemed he and Lindsey had found the beginnings of peace and forgiveness.

On autopilot, he reached into the fridge for ham, pastrami, deli mustard, lettuce and tomato, vaguely acknowledging the other guys at the table. He glared at Abel and Alex, face deep into steaming mugs of coffee. He cheated once already this morning, when he first got in, but he vowed to make a bigger effort to get healthy. Then he frowned at the four slices of bread lined up for his lunch. Well, at least a sandwich was sort of nutritional. He'd done too much damage to his body the past decade, time to ensure he lived a little longer than the average guy.

"Gonna make me one too, cupcake?" Abel asked after Haustin put the ingredients away and took a seat at the table. He slumped in his chair, doing his best to remain upright while he ate.

"Make your own," he answered around a mouthful.

"Shit," Alex muttered under his breath beside him.

Haustin swiveled his head, the action taking monumental effort, and noticed Alex was reading today's newspaper. His meal soured in his stomach. Damn, he forgot to check them this morning before their first call.

"Give it."

He wiped his hands and reached, but Alex held the paper away from him. "Wait a minute. Do you want the good or the bad first?"

"There's both?" He furrowed his brows in confusion. "Yael was sure it'd all be bad."

"The one I read wasn't negative," Abel supplied.

"Bad," he decided.

Alex handed him the Post and Haustin groaned. The reporter she had told off was from the Post. Obviously, Yael's speech, which she repeated to him word for word last night, hadn't made much of an impact. He skimmed the article, clutching the thin material tighter and tighter with each paragraph. It portrayed her to be nothing more than a spoiled party girl who 'blames her shortcomings and inability to say no on the biggest tragedy to ever hit this wonderful city. The reporter called it a cop out. His hands shook and he slammed the offensive trash down.

"What a load of bullshit," he complained.

Clay, one of the other crew members, reached for the newspaper. "Those were my thoughts when I read it, and I don't even know her."

"See," Alex added. "I'm sure most readers will recognize it for what it is—a piece of over-sensationalized garbage. Here, try this one."

The next article came from the Times and painted her in a much better light, praising her recovery and describing the woman she was now. Slowly, the tension coiled throughout his body lessened its grip, and he was able to take a deep breath. He was glad he'd saved the positive one for last. Otherwise, he could have spiraled into another bender. Hell, he saw it all perfectly—losing control, drinking, marching into her work and trying to offer his abrasive advice to screw them all, or worse, storming into the newspaper and making a scene. The urge tugged at him, old Haustin perching on his shoulder and telling him not to be a pussy. The desire was so strong it nearly brought him to his feet, but an involuntary shudder hit him. No, he'd never embarrass her that badly. He only wanted to protect her and offer what comfort he could.

He felt Abel's gaze on him and lifted his eyes to meet it. "What?"

"Waiting for the fireworks."

A short chuckle escaped. "I was sitting here thinking the same thing. Without the pills, I can actually process this. The temptation is still there to blow the entire situation out of proportion, but I know the damage it would do. Ain't worth it."

"Wow."

"Proud of you," Alex said as he clapped him on the shoulder. "Whatever happened the other night must have been good for you."

"He's right. You're different." Abel studied him as if he were a science project or something.

Haustin squirmed, picking up his forgotten sandwich and returning to the task of refueling. The silence around him grew, and he mentally smacked himself in the head. Soon, they were going to start thinking of him as a softie. He'd have to ensure that didn't happen.

"Few months ago, you'd be on your way to the Post's headquarters with a full head of steam and murder in your eye," Abel joked.

"Maybe a crowbar in hand," Clay added with a grin.

Haustin fought the urge to glare at them. Alex snickered, having an obvious problem containing his amusement.

"You'll are a bunch of assholes." He stood and took his empty plate to the sink and grinned. The picture they painted of him hauling ass to the newspaper was pretty dead on. Today, he was sober enough to realize how stupid it would be. The only thing his interference would do was make things worse for Yael. No, he'd behave himself. Of course, it didn't stop him from worrying about how she was taking the negative press.

A headache flared. They were almost constant since tossing his pills, and he reached for the station's jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen. Withdrawals were a bitch. The sharp blast of the alarm snapped him into action and the routine he knew by heart. Stepping into his boots, Haustin wished for the next few hours to pass quickly so he could leave and check in on Yael.