I was alone on Friday evening when I received a text from him.

Our first electronic exchange since that day of tears and flames. The end of November saw colder days and the perpetual dark skies that was London, very much perfect for some indoor rest and relaxation had I not been doing so for the past several days in the strangest state of boredom; a state of mind that allowed for stray thoughts to wander deep and wander dark. I'd somehow managed to convince myself that it was Chicken I missed. Not his owner. Just Chicken. Of course, I had to somehow miraculously chance upon the lovely videos I took of him balancing a blueberry on his nose. And then before I knew it, I was spiraling down a rabbit hole of cute pet videos on the internet and feeling the terrible urge to adopt one of my own. Dogs were loving and sweet, but I'd always had a preference for felines. Well... explains the lion.

Either way, my personal time of enjoyment had been rudely interrupted by a text from said idiot just as I was thinking about him. Dreadful.

In a single line of what he termed English, Leroy had, rather forwardly, extended an invitation to London's most famous festive Christmas market at Hyde Park—Winter Wonderland—tomorrow evening, joining him and his crew members for a night out. Apparently, station twelve's fire chief had purchased extra tickets for plus-ones.

Gold Gate at 5.

Come if you want to.

It's okay if you don't.

The way he'd phrased it sounded quite as though he hadn't expected a proper response from the very person he'd extended the invitation to. Like this was a rolled-up note sent by a dove and we were to convene at some secret hideout regardless of my availability—he'd be there.

Fortunately for myself, I was an expert on fools. One fool. What the message really meant was that he'd extended the invitation to just one person, and that one person was me. He wasn't intending to extend it to anyone else since his invitation wasn't a question per se, but a statement. Come if you can. Perhaps other non-foolish people would have extended the invitation to someone else available on that evening, should their first person of choice be unable to attend. But Leroy Cox was an idiot. It was one and only.

It is unfortunate that said foolishness could at times be mildly contagious. This was one such time.

Here I was standing at the end of an enormous line outside the Gold Gate entrance to Winter Wonderland, fifteen minutes early and running conversations through my mind for a proper evening with Leroy and his crew members. The entrance was a bit of a walk from the Marble Arch, and I was positioned idly at the top of a couple of steps by the monument for a better view of the crowd. It did not help very much.

I snapped pictures of my surroundings and sent them to Leroy. The status under his name switched to 'online' within a second and then, back to 'offline'. Moments later, he was at my shoulder as though this was some 'Where's Wally' challenge and he was the competitive kindergartner in the reading corner breezing through every page.

"You're early."

I narrowed in on the surprise in his tone. "Well, I overestimated the time I'd take to get here. Jason's on his day off and the um..." The self-proclaimed main chauffeur and I have an ambiguous relationship at present. "So I thought I'd... give the Tube a go."

He nodded, and it was then that I could tell he'd sped over, walked ahead of his peers, and was now about to take me with him to rejoin the group. Needless to say, nerves were a thing. The firehouse was Leroy's second family; a good impression was critical. Crucial. Absolutely necessary.

"Prefer it to traffic?"

"Not really. It was rather cramped in the train carriage and the platform was um... I'd very much prefer you. I meant, to be riding the... to be car in... you drive car." I finished intelligently. He laughed, glancing sideways.

"They'll like you."

"Don't say it like it's a known fact, that practically doubles the nerves!" I fidgeted, following him across the field to the proper end of the line where his crew members were apparently waiting. "I've already ruined one of your friendships here; god knows how many more in a single evening."

He reached over, and I saw it coming—the usual—and, on instinct, closed my eyes to brace for it. It didn't come. Instead, he'd laughed with his hand faltering. Hovering somewhere between my ear and my shoulder. "Some ties, when tested, break. She took the test and failed. Simple." He snorted, eyes lingering on my neck. I followed his gaze. Just my turtleneck. "Real ties don't break like that. They last."

He was talking about us.

Well, it made sense that he was, even if Leroy himself hadn't actually meant it in that manner. All I could think about was the ambiguity of said tie at present. And also, how good he looked in that new hooded down jacket of his. Wine-red; shearling. Ostensibly illegal.

"He's back." "Heey it's bagel guy! Sweet." "Everyone here?" "Sir, the queue's twice as long now." "Let's go boys." "Sorry for the wait." "You're a real shit for running off like that without a heads up, by the way." "He said he was gonna pick his friend up, capt. You were busy checking people out." "Zales. If your girlfriend was here, I'd tell her about the girls you check out." "She's cool with it. We check people out together all the time." "Aight you can shut up now."

It was a whirlwind of banter left right center and just walking alongside Leroy had me thrust into the middle of the storm. Needless to say, I'd expected more of an awkward start to it all with, well, a stranger in their midst, but my presence did nothing to prevent his crew members from acting like their usual selves. More importantly, it was becoming increasingly clear that... apart from Leroy, no one else had brought along additional company. I-it made me slightly conscious, having prior to this assumed I'd have someone else in a similar plight and therefore perhaps some common ground. Clearly, I was wrong.

"Sir, what about the unused food coupons?" A bright-eyed, bushy-tailed member voiced to no one in particular as we shuffled several feet forward in the line. He matched the description of the station's new crew member I'd vaguely recalled Leroy recounting. He never said his name—only the title 'probie'. On probation.

"Oh right. Rock paper scissors?" "Ah fuck. Okay." "Zales." "Fine."

Leroy turned to me. "You ready?"

"What am I... how does this..."

"Rock paper scissors," he said. Nodding at the crew that had somehow formed a tiny circle of hands. They looked fairly amusing—human beings built like him all gathered in a holy circle of summoning. "I need that thing you do with your brain: deduction and 200 IQ."

"But. Leroy, this is a game of luck a-a-and I've never played a game of rock paper scissors as a child! Books never required that and, quite frankly, the pre-requisite for this would be to have, in the first place, friends to play with."

He laughed. "Your debut then." In an instant, he took my hand and slotted me into the circle of summoning. None of them found this (me) out of place. Three rounds of sheer luck and null intelligence later, I'd won a grand total of two additional food coupons that came with the entry ticket already purchased by station twelve's fire chief.

The gang was in pain. Indecent fingers went round. I received some. It was quite the crime scene—I didn't know what to think of it.

"That's some beginner's luck you have there, uh... sorry, what's your name again?" This person was the only one who hadn't presented me a casual finger. I think his name was Jung. I wasn't too sure. There hadn't been a round of official introductions; nothing was turning out like the simulations I'd run in my head. "Cox, what the hell. You didn't introduce him. Sorry mate... to the bunch of us without brains, you're the bagel guy. Which is great. The bagels were lovely."

"Oh fuck..." It dawned on Leroy and I stared at him in disbelief. He actually forgot! This idiot. Unbelievable. I'd merely passed it off as something of a tradition. A thing they didn't necessarily do. "This is Vanilla."

I stared. That's it?!

"Good on you for putting up with this motherfucker." "Vanilla's a cool name." "I like your turtleneck. Where'd you get it?" Before I could answer, Leroy moved on to introducing his team. "This is Jaeger." Hand raise. "Zales." "Hey." "Jung." "Pleasure." "Probie. His name's Vance." "Pleasure to meet you sir."

"Oh um," I turned to Vance. "You don't have to call me that. Just Vanilla is fine."

"Okay sir. I uh... hope you keep the bagels coming."

And then the conversation very naturally flowed elsewhere into the realm of food carts and German sausages that were the apparent favorite of festive go-ers at the Winter Wonderland.

We started off by stopping at an area with firepits and live music, getting ourselves a steaming cup of mulled wine each and for Vance and Jaeger, a serving of churros to share. While we were warming ourselves up at the firepit and enjoying the fruity tartness of mulled wine, I'd chanced a quick glimpse at Leroy and noticed his gaze fixed on a food stall not far away.

I read the sign. "Halloumi fries."

"Yeah." Was all he said, not quite taking his eyes off the menu. "What's that?"

"It's a type of cheese. Originated in Cyprus, I believe."

"Yeah I know," he met my gaze and then it was back to staring at someone else's portion of Halloumi fries—crisp and brown, topped with something that looked like aioli and a dash of freshly chopped herbs and spices. "He made me memorize them," he said under his breath. "All the cheeses. This one's usually grilled. Traditionally."

"Oh. Yes, that is correct. Most restaurants have them sliced and grilled. Frying isn't exactly an abomination, but... would you, um... like to give them a go?" I held up a food coupon. He met my gaze with a spark in his eye.

"We're sharing. I need your tongue."

As ambiguous and problematic as that sentence sounded, it was enough to propel the two of us away from the warmth of the firepit and towards the Halloumi fries. Most of what was in the batter and the garlic aioli, Leroy could make out. There was just one obvious thing that I could taste and he couldn't.

"It's honey-glazed. The cheese." I told him as he sent fry after fry into his jaws. "They sliced it up and brushed them down before setting it."

He stared at the takeaway portion in his hands. "So that's..."

"Sorry?"

He paused for a bit. "Nothing."

I did not probe. He finished the rest of it and the crew headed for our first official destination of the evening. 'Bar Ice'; part of the Magical Ice Kingdom and quite literally as its name suggested: a bar made entirely out of ice. Even the glasses used to contain alcohol were made of ice.

Needless to say, well... I had my concerns.

The weather was cold, yes, but nowhere near freezing at this point in late November. Therefore, the bar was, technically speaking, housed in a freezer of sorts. An enclosed space. Of extreme cold.

Spelling it out would have been a mood killer. I did not do well with freezers or anything that resembled the like of an enclosed space at freezing point; I wasn't sure if Leroy was going to remember that, but I suppose excusing myself after a quick drink wouldn't... oh. He was looking at me.

"Not good?" He said under his breath, our shoulders brushing. I sighed behind my scarf that had now made its way up around half my face. My glasses fogged up.

"Not... exactly. I mean. I know there's going to be people around and logically speaking, a repeat of history would be impossible with the safety measures put in place, but. I suppose this is merely some... psychological... barrier." I finished lamely.

He offered to spend the time elsewhere. I declined.

"I don't want your crew members worrying about my wellbeing or... passing their time of merriment in there thinking we're waiting around for them," I explained in what could only be known as nervous English. "It's fine."

"You sure?" He asked one last time. "They're cool."

"Yes." I insisted, smiling up at him behind my scarf. "I'm sure." He seemed to soften.

"At least you got a whole crew of firefighters to break you out of there."

This had its effect; relaxing the tension in my shoulders. "Ah yes. I'd yell for Operation Arson to commence, and you firefighters can start melting everything within reach." It got him laughing too. And it was then that I realized how much I'd missed this sound. Even if it were just mere days we had spent apart.

*

Turns out, no one liked the bar made out of ice. Vance was the most impressed out of the crew, but even he had given it an average score of five-point-five out of ten. Jaeger was not a fan of the drinks and Zales said that the ice smelled funny; Leroy just flat out thought the whole thing was a gimmick and overpriced. Jung and I sipped on gin cocktails and kept our opinions to ourselves. The place was more for pictures than it was for anything else.

It all worked out rather nicely because we spent less than a total of fifteen minutes in the bar and apparently, everything had come out of the fire chief's pocket. I felt incredibly guilty.

"Aight boys. Time for some charcoal-grilled Bratwursts," Jaeger rubbed his hands together as we headed for the Bavarian Village food hall. "And schmalzkuchen. You like those? Oh wait, Cox can't taste 'em."

"Say that again?" Jung held up his phone in Jaeger's face for a video. "Those two words."

"Bratwurst. Schmalzkuchen." "The only time I don't throw up at your bloody voice." "Zales, I know you like the thickest, juiciest, longest Bratwursts—" "Oh yeah get me those." "Sir, what's a shmatlz... koo... I dunno. What's that?" "It's like beignets." Leroy told him. Vance's mouth shaped into an 'o'.

Station twelve's captain pointed out the giant animatronic as a landmark before sending us on our rounds about the food hall. "Chief landed us the snooker table at Paxton's Head so get your grub and we'll head right over. Meet back here."

The entire crew split up on command and I was left to fend for myself, fighting an onslaught of indecision courtesy of the many different stalls. This was before I learned that they pretty much sold the same thing everywhere: long, thick German sausages, grilled over an open fire.

"So. You doin' a traditional, or?" Zales popped by my shoulder to ask, nodding at the menu carved in fake wood. "I go for the Currywurst most of the time. Safe bet. I think."

I hadn't quite expected an actual conversation with one of Leroy's peers, and so thus some fumbling around with words proceeded to occur. English, I speak. "An extensive selection certainly makes decisions a little harder—except they're all very huge and I don't exactly know what to think of them. Massive, really."

She blinked. "You've... never seen bratwursts?"

"Oh no I have. In the past, yes. It's just, well, they're... usually accompanied by a fork and a knife; served on a plate. Sorry. That came across rather pretentious, didn't it."

Thankfully, she assured me that I was 'in the green' and only needed a couple of lessons on the, um, consumption of sausages served in a bread roll. That was rephrased. Leroy had been put on schmalzkuchen duty alongside Vance, and I caught him staring at the list of sausages from afar before promptly making my way over.

"Can't decide?" I cleared my throat, presenting him with the two additional food coupons I'd won us.

His gaze promptly lit up. "One traditional. One spiced."

I stared back in surprise. "Two? I reckon people have trouble finishing one on their own, by the looks of it." A heavy-set man passed us with a sausage mid-bite and loads of sauerkraut heaped on top of it. "There is simply no elegant way to eat this."

"... You could open wide." Came his helpful, and infinitely more intelligent solution to the problem I'd raised. Clearly the wiser party. Ordinary minds like myself would never have thought!

"How clever. What brilliant advice," I quipped. "Thank you for the suggestion."

"Can't wait to see it happen."

"Oh be quiet."

After regrouping with the rest of station twelve at the giant animatronic, we set off to spend the rest of the evening in a pub across Hyde Park, where Zales' partner and Vance's brother were waiting. Thankfully, the walk was short and dark—thereby allowing all forms of unsightly sausage consumption to be gratefully carried out in the comfort of shadows.

Admittedly, school excursions and learning trips were my only experiences of non-curricular group activities, or what some people may call: hanging out. The company of a single individual was well within my realm of social comfort. Two individuals (namely Xu Si Yin and Violet Birchwood); equally welcome. Anything more than that, well, I consider a challenge.

The eight of us were shown into the pub's three-floor establishment and brought to our table that was conveniently located beside a classic snooker table: our soon-to-be prime source of entertainment for the rest of the evening. Jaeger called for several pints of beer just as they handed out cocktail menus and already, I was concerned.

"A glass of still will do just fine," I raised a hand to catch his attention, reluctant about draining the chief's generous budget with needs of my own. Either way, I wasn't going to risk getting myself tipsy in front of station twelve, not with the rare disposition of 'affection' I tended to exhibit upon having too much alcohol in my system. A certain someone in the room would know.

"If it's our wallets you're thinking about, Chief pre-ordered two drinks for every head, so." Zales slid the menu my way as half the crew made for the snooker table without delay—winter coats and scarves left piled up at the booth. I turned back and a trick of the light conjured a fireplace burning low in the periphery of my vision but a second look confirmed that it was, in fact, the gaze of a lion.

"We could share something. If you'd like," I offered as an escape, hiding behind the drink menu before glancing over the top of it. "I'm thinking... a cocktail."

"Which one?" He was in the middle of shrugging off his down jacket, side-stepping the table to catch a glimpse of the menu over my shoulder.

"Oh. Um." I could smell him all of a sudden; the familiar scent of candles keeping company in the night. "I-I suppose something tropical and refreshing would be nice after the sausages we had. A mojito? Or perhaps a classic piña colada?"

"Pineapple, coconut, rum..." His finger slid down the list as he scanned the drink names printed on the menu. "This one? Pineapple. Lavender. Lime. Coconut foam on top."

Midsummer Magic was the name of the cocktail he pointed out. "Sounds promising," was all I had to say, reading the description and noting a base of tequila. "We'll share a glass, then?"

It was now my turn to remove scarf and coat that were beginning to feel like the heat of a midsummer afternoon. Alas! A peculiar observation: everyone at the table seemed to turn away as soon as I reached for the buttons on my pea coat. How odd.

"Can we get you lot into teams please. Come on, pair up." "Sir, there's eight of us." "Let's do quads then?" "Fine. I want Cox on my team." "Psh. Who needs him to win? Honey you're with me. C'mon Probie. Vanilla."

Zales tossed a cue stick my way, and I was pleasantly surprised to be recruited so quickly without a word of discussion. For all she knew, I could have been the most terrible English snooker player. Fortunately... luck was on her side.

"What's the strat, ma'am?" Vance was already chalking his cue.

"No strat," Zales laid out. "Rotate after every shot so we all get a go. Don't fret about missing."

"Who's up first, darling?" Her partner, Devika, asked, and I could tell from the slightest streak of reluctance in her voice that starting the frame wasn't her cup of tea. In fact, a practiced sweep of everyone's expressions confirmed a general aversion toward going first.

Ah. An opening!

"I don't mind starting," I offered with a raised hand. It felt very much like school again. "If that is alright with everyone else."

"Of course, sir!" Probational firefighter Jack Vance resembled a golden retriever running around in circles all of a sudden. "You didn't say anything about playing snooker, so we thought... but it all makes sense now. You must play with senior officer Cox! And if you're half as good as him, I reckon we have those bagels in the bag. My brother's a bad shot."

Three things. First: "I, um, wasn't aware bagels were part of the equation."

"Capt's idea." Zales gave me a pat on the shoulder as she nodded at the group of four across the snooker table, deep in discussion. Possibly over bagels. "But hey, it's cool if you miss a tactical break 'cuz we're just here for some fun."

I felt the edges of my lips curl. "Thank you Zales, but that was not what you said earlier." I got to chalking my cue just as the server arrived with our drinks.

"Someone's confident," station twelve's lead engineer sounded fairly surprised. And impressed. "So it's true? You two shoot at pubs often."

"We've never played together, actually. Leroy and myself." I sipped at a glass of water before taking my place at the front of the table, quietly thankful she'd raised the second pointer in my head.

The third and final one, however, was unfortunately interrupted by the very subject of our conversation: the heart of my woes.

"Should we flip a coin?" I asked first.

Leroy—unbeknownst to himself—chose death. "It's fine. I'll break."

"That would put yourself at a staggering disadvantage for a first chance." I made sure he knew. He did. Well, judging from the look in his eye and that unlawful, unsanctioned expression that crossed his features, he did. "Alright then. If you insist."

There were no glaring mistakes in his break-off shot; not entirely strategic but nothing amateurish about it either. Had his opponent been an inexperienced player, they would've most certainly missed the opening for a pot.

"We're winning tonight lads!" "Not yet, Capt." "Sir, you got this. Think about the bagels." "Keep the pressure off, Probie. It's a tough shot... I don't think anyone can land a pocket from that. Just play it safe, Vanilla."

I circled the snooker table halfway around with my cue, arriving at the other end where the white ball had come to a stop. "It's not much, but I'll pot this red which makes the next shot on the yellow an effortless one. Afterwhich, a tricky angle on this red over here, but should leave an opening for the blue. If we're lucky, perhaps even the black! A perfect thirty-five-degree spin."

The looks on all seven faces were priceless. But for some reason, as soon as I leaned forward and bent over—the standard stance, really, nothing too special yet—a collective gasp filled the room and and and everyone turned away at once! Sharply, as though they'd once again, bore witness to some mindbreaking crime scene.

Immediately, I straightened up. "Sorry. Was I being a bad sport?"

"No! No, no." Devika was the first to turn back around with an awkward laugh. "That's, uh. You look... very professional, actually. We were just surprised."

Zales backed this up with a harmless 'what she said' while the rest of the crew busied themselves with drinks. Aside, Leroy seemed... well, for the lack of a better word: impressed.

"You play?"

"Well, sometimes." I glanced up at him in reservation, keeping my cards close to my chest. "Though I've heard I'm an excellent shot." I added in private amusement under my breath. Something about his eyes spelled intrigue and for a moment, it felt like I'd wandered far too close to the flame. Despite the ambiguity of our boundaries, I knew it was time to avert my gaze.

Resuming stance, I took my shot. The clack of contact and the sound of a red ball rolling across the snooker table and into the upper left pot had all three members of my team celebrating while our opponents stared in visible awe.

"That was sick, sir!" "Smooth game." "... Scoring on the first shot is crazy with that kind of setup." "Cox left no reds on." "Who's next? Call a color." "Can't wait for the bagels."

"Zales," I stepped away from the table and gestured at the cue ball on the other end. "All yours."

She came up to me. "I don't feel so good all of a sudden. You call the color and take my shot, ay?" Soon after, Vance was on the other side of my shoulder. "I don't feel too good either sir. It's your—I mean our, first chance at a century break!"

"That shot was all luck." I said in passing, embarrassed and overall worried about stealing the spotlight from my teammates. "I assure you it won't happen again."

"Look, bagel boy. Half of us here spend off-hours at pubs so trust me when I say we know how to spot a complete fluke." Zales handed me a cube of chalk while her girlfriend directed me back to the snooker table.

It was after potting the third black in a row that our opposing team called for an emergency meeting. We let them have it, partly because they weren't necessarily being the most discreet about their strategies which somehow involved 'dealing with the glasses'. I hadn't a clue how my glasses came into the picture but I did notice the chains I had attached to the frames (an accessory of style and functionality, or so I'd learned from Violet) brushing the surface of the table whenever I assumed stance.

"Ma'am they're pulling out the big guns." "Let them. Cox isn't even half as good as our star player over here." Ah, there it was; my third and final point.

Admittedly, I hadn't a single clue about Leroy's skills in cuesports and was curious to witness his supposed legendary plays his crew members have been raving about. All I knew was anything to do with the calculation of angles, speed, spin, velocity, and energy transfer was perfectly within my realm of interest. As such, I'd become quite the formidable opponent at country clubs—the ones Uncle Al has been inviting me to—and no running required! Plus points for that.

"Take blue next." The certified idiot opened with a challenge he knew I wouldn't turn away from, pointing out the trickiest shot on the table.

"I wasn't aware opponents were in any position to make demands while a player's on a streak."

"You can take it, or I'll take it when you miss," came the final nail in the coffin. Didn't take very much, really. And no, I'm not easily provoked. Honestly, i-it's a matter of... of...

"Blue it is." I crossed the threshold into the lion's den. After all, I haven't lost a single match since my first against Xander in Rory's new basement hideout (she had begged for a table and cue sticks); even beat him right after the 'tutorial' and received a standing ovation from Chip himself! "However, I call Pink ball-on."

Blue was positioned at a rather awkward angle, inches behind a stray red and a long shot away from another at its far right, nearly perpendicular. It would take a devious trickshot to pot this color. Multiple, in fact.

I made the first red that grazed the Pink in the trajectory of my first shot and then, resting a knee up on the table and bending over to reach for my next shot, spun the cue ball at a calculated distance despite its awkward position in the middle of the playing field to have it necessarily collide with the Pink and stray red near the Blue, that then finally come into contact with my opponent's color of choice.

Naturally, it potted. A legal Cannon, according to the rules of snooker.

The feeling was akin to cutting open a poached egg to see a perfectly runny center. I say akin because successfully poaching an egg—for my standards, at least—is a far greater achievement than pocketing a tricky color at the snooker table. The latter sport being a hobby I'd, well, quietly excelled at and even considered getting into competitively.

"Fuck you're good."

I heard him over good-natured complaints and hearty cheers from around the table. He'd said those words under his breath, in the very tone I was familiar with; and even by the time I retired from the table to insist on everyone else actually having a go at the game, he was, still, looking at me.

Ambiguity was a notion I'd struggled with perhaps all my life. Blurred lines and muddied boundaries precipitating an insurmountable number of interpretations. Possibilities. Outcomes and eventualities.

Leroy was incredibly difficult to read at times. This, however, wasn't one of them. In those eyes lived the embers of a fireplace burning low at the end of a night. The sound of its sizzle and crack, waiting; calling for attention. Hoping I'd return his gaze.

Zales and her girlfriend potted one red and a color each, but it was not until an apologetic Vance missed a narrow score on the next ball that we eventually lost our streak.

"Cocktails are on the house, gentlemen. Ladies." A server came by with more glasses of alcohol in various shapes, sizes, and colors. "You guys cover East Dulwich? The owner sends his regards—he wants to thank you for your service."

Half the crew decided to accept that Christmas had arrived early while the other half started turning down the offer out of classic British manners. The plus ones (myself, Devika, and Vance's brother) stood idly by the side to give station twelve their space and spotlight until they eventually thanked the server for the owner's kind gesture and began handing out the drinks.

"Woah. This one's got some kind of foam on it," Jung held up a curved, almost spherical double-walled glass I instantly recognized as the cocktail that piqued Leroy's interest.

"It's the only one without a straw," said person of interest pointed out after taking a sip and handing it to me. His first instinct was to frown. "What the fuck?"

Curiosity now doubled by the puzzled look on the face of a man who'd practically grown up with flavor combinations instead of multiplication tables, I raised it to my lips, smelled practically nothing, and then sipped once.

It was hot and cold at the same time.

Instantly, I didn't quite know what to think of it; the tequila base mix was the definition of all things tropical with balanced flavors of pineapple and lime, muted by a subtle infusion of lavender. This was icy. Crisp. Juxtaposing those flavors and complementing them at the same time was a hot, coconut-and-cinnamon, white chocolate foam layer that gave the impression of December and its festivities. This, was hot. Not providing a straw was deliberate—the mixologist intended for the drink to be appreciated without stirring or combining the two elements. They had to be separate for it to be enjoyed as a whole.

A perfect paradox.

"It's not what I was expecting at all." I turned to Leroy, realizing I wasn't the only one deep in thought. He reached for another sip and a hint of curiosity crept into his eyes. Then, he pulled out his phone and started typing something; head down, completely disconnected from his surroundings.

"Sir? It's your shot." Vance came up to him with his cue stick after the crew called him over twice. Nothing.

I gave his shoulder a quick tap. If anything, he kept at it—filling the screen of his phone with a single, never-ending paragraph; a string of thoughts.

"Leave him, Probie. You've seen how he was the other day," Zales jerked a thumb over her shoulder, away from Leroy. "Skip his turn. Someone's been playing model student all week."

"Maybe that'll make him better at those soddy reports." "Be careful what you wish for, Capt. Some day, Cox might be the one taking your spot." "He can have it. I want nothin' to do with all that writing. Just look at him go." "Think he slept at all last night?" "No clue. Wasn't his shift or anything, but Probie and I saw him camping out in the kitchen." "I thought I smelled bagels, sir." "Spoiler alert, there weren't any bagels." "Yeah. He said they were ricotta fritters." "With the cold soup?" "Mine was hot." "That was yesterday, sir." "Pretty sure it was just this morning." "Okay whatever. Point is: they all tasted bloody good, so."

I took this all in from afar, not wanting to intrude on their lively conversation about a certain firefighter on his last two weeks before a three-month sabbatical. Quietly, I watched. Over the top of my glass.

Sounds of the pub turned down low in my head, and a muted tune began to play over it. A gentle hush followed—and soon, I found his fingers over mine, reaching for the cocktail we shared.

"Sorry." I let go, startled by my wavering attention and the scent of nerves; or perhaps patrons across the room smoking at their booth. "I... am glad to see you enjoying something. The drink. You may have the rest of it."

I watched him falter. "You don't like it?"

How does one express the notion of not quite knowing if something is to their liking or not, when all their life, they'd been reasonably certain about things of such nature? Simply put, I was confused. It was no paradigm-shifting technique; many recipes across various cuisines feature the marriage of heat and cold. Ice cream on freshly baked waffles being perhaps the most famous combination of all time.

And yet, the confusion. Still, I could not reconcile the gap between my expectations and the moment of taste. I'd expected the drink to be served entirely cold, and had those very expectations subverted the instant I tipped the glass. Sweetened, spiced, and unearthed all at once.

"I'm not sure," I concluded curtly, averting his gaze. "It tasted... different from how I imagined it to be. You can have it." I pushed it toward him and took a step back, finding the act of sharing a drink far too intimate for the level of ambiguity in our current impasse.

Leroy appeared unfazed. "Sure." His gaze lowered to the cue stick in my hand, flickering once. "Did Alfred teach you?"

"Chip's husband did. Uncle Al wasn't very approving of it all when we first started, but within a week, he was parading me around his country club over summer breaks." I mused under my breath, adjusting the frames of my glasses and rebalancing the chain on both ends. "Aunt Julie said she'd never let me pursue a career in cue or my uncle would be the most annoying man on earth, going around boasting about his nephew to strangers on the plane. I disagree. That title's been pinned to his breast since he was born. Coincidentally, I, too, share the same fate."

He snorted a laugh, raising his glass and smiling sideways as he savored the final half. Gone in a matter of seconds.

The game resumed after another round of drinks only because station twelve's captain refused to give in to Zales' constant reminder of a 'massive' point gap and sought to close it entirely. For the bagels, he said.

"Getting serious now, are we?" Jung began to tease the moment Jaeger reached around his wrist to undo the strap of his watch, holding out a hand. "Give it here, Capt. Can't have them lying around in pubs these days. Cousin got his entire work bag stolen the moment he wasn't looking. It's the watches. They keep an eye out for the fancy ones and pick their targets."

At once, Vance was looking down at his wrist. "How's mine, sir?"

"You're fine, Probie. But get yourself a first-responder grade when you can," Zales held up hers. Dark blue, with glow-in-the-dark accents. "You'll thank me when you do."

"Wasn't even your idea in the first place," her girlfriend added for extra measure. Station twelve's engineer shot her a look.

Glancing around, it didn't take me very long to notice a trend. Large, heavy-duty watches with reinforced straps wrapped around every crew member's wrist at the table. Leroy's included.

That, I knew.

"When we saw Cox walk into the station one day wearing that monster on his wrist, it was a goner." Jaeger got into stance and took his shot for a red. "Don't look at him. Lad's smug about it all the time. We were adding it to wishlists, saving up, carting out. The whole deal."

"So if I get one, it's like I'm part of the team?" Probational firefighter Jack Vance did not miss a beat.

"You're already part of the team, Probie," Zales reassured. "Unless you mess up someone's jaw like Cox did on his first day, then, eh. Maybe not." Her eyes narrowed the moment Jaeger's red rolled slowly toward the top left pot before relaxing when it whiffed completely. "Aight, watches off. It's my turn."

"Pretty sure I'm about to get mugged for holding onto ten fucking watches." Jung protested in the middle of catching half the station's flying watches in the air.

As a result, I offered a helping hand. After all, the simple task of holding onto a couple of heavy-duty, first-responder-grade, practically indestructible watches couldn't be any easier. Plus, I'd been politely asked to sit out—because again, bagels were at stake.

"Someone's got themselves the fancy type," Vance's brother eyed my wrist just as Jung strapped several watches to my arm. Not including Leroy's; he hadn't taken his off. In fact, the thought of parting with it didn't even seem to cross his mind while he watched Zales pot a red.

"Oh. It was a gift," I followed his gaze. A vintage timepiece; gold, rectangular frame; leather strap. "From my family. Quite recent, really... Christmas, last year." I looked up and, on instinct, glanced across the room.

"It suits you very much," Devika observed, nodding. "The color, the shape, the make—looks even better on small wrists like yours. Very elegant."

"... 's not the one you've been talking about, is it?" "No darling, it's not Cartier. Those are at least forty grand a piece." "And you're sure you wanna be parading that around on the streets?" "Cut her some slack, Zales. Law enforcement's on it, they've been talking for weeks." "Just saying. People get knives pointed at them in broad daylight for wearing watches like that."

I'd been paying close attention to the serious conversation (after all, firefighters, too, were emergency services part of the authorities) when I noticed Vance inching closer to my side of the snooker table after his turn.

"Sir. Any notes?" He asked quietly behind a raised palm, which I found thoroughly amusing.

"No. Not at all," I assured. "Your most recent shot was near-perfect—pity about the setup, but not exactly a missed opportunity either played in teams. Taking turns can be tricky, coordinating shots for a streak. You did well."

"No sir, I meant getting into Cox's good books. He took care of me on my first day and I look up to him 'cuz, y'know, senior firefighter at his age is... yeah. Either way, you know him best." Vance was once again, the perfect example of a golden retriever waiting for instructions. "Anything I should, uh... do? Or, not do?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "For starters, Leroy takes to people who are authentic. Unapologetically themselves is the way I see it; which I'm sure you are. Earnestness is a rare quality nowadays. Some find it far too vulnerable to the afflictions of rejection, and naturally, such pain is undesired, so. Yes. I'd say you're doing well in his books."

"Woah, woah." The other half of our team came around to join hands in a, um, shared sense of unity against our opponents currently on a hot streak of red-and-colors. "Probie, you've got tables checking you out."

It was then that I noticed the looks from neighboring booths and patrons stopping by the snooker table. Logically speaking, there was nothing surprising about members of the public admiring the appearances of conventionally attractive human beings, of which happened to include the entirety of fire station twelve.

"I don't think it's me they're staring at, ma'am." Vance picked up his pint of beer. "It's Vanilla. Sir."

It dawned on me. Indignant, I withdrew from the light and hid in the shadows like a... a speck of dust. "I am very sorry. You see, I've been gracing social media with terrible gossip as of late. It's my hair too. It stands out. People don't exactly have the hardest time identifying me, especially if they're in the culinary scene. Or anything food-related, really."

"Hey," Zales downed half her glass of beer in a go. I'd barely looked away and it was gone. "Don't be too hard on yourself. The hair's cool. And about the Twitter thing? Cox had it bad too. We just don't talk about it in the firehouse."

"Actually ma'am, I think it's kinda cool that senior officer Cox is a chef. I don't get why we don't talk about it. Sorry if that sounded... rude."

She waved his apology aside. "Nah. He told us a while back. It just never was his thing, he said. But have you seen him dice those fucking onions in seconds and like, every time he gets on fried chicken and that beef thing? Heck, I can't even pronounce it, but it's some fancy restaurant stuff. That was definitely the good shit."

I laughed. It was hard to disagree. "Leroy is... an incredible chef when he wants to be."

"Probie, you heard about his sabbatical from Chief?"

Vance blinked. "What do you mean, ma'am?"

"Cox is taking a three-month sabbatical leave. Didn't Jaeger tell you that already? I swear Chief tells him everything."

The poor boy had his mouth agape for seconds. He looked upset. "Is that why we're going out today? To say goodbye?"

"Unfortunately, the motherfucker's coming back," Zales laid out with a snort. "So no goodbye and no sad stuff, aight? He's coming back."

Then she turned to me with a look in her eyes. A sad sort of smile. It frightened me a little, no doubt; to see such a fragile emotion in the eyes of what would have been, mere hours ago, a stranger.

"You take care of him."

I stared.

Here I was, taking everything away from Leroy—his ordinary, simple life with his crew members, the people he seemed so comfortable around and just, overall... happy. So much more than I'd ever seen him in a kitchen that wasn't private and... for myself. For me. But what he said that day would have to do away with such a thought.

After all, he wasn't doing this for me. "My apologies. I'm not going to be taking care of Leroy."

It wasn't going to be that way again. 

"He's going to do that himself."

Zales paused. And soon after, laughed—grabbing another pint of beer that wasn't her own and clinking it against my glass of water. "Welcome to station twelve, bagel boy."