But that had made her smile, just a little. “Of course he does.”
I’d planned to leave right away. Drop off the coffee and get back to the station for the morning briefing. But then she’d asked if I had a minute, and somehow that minute turned into ten minutes of quiet conversation about the upcoming emergency drill schedule.
Ten minutes that made the nightmares from the night before feel more manageable.
The next day, I’d brought coffee again. Told myself it was just being neighborly. The third day, she was waiting for me, already at her desk, and the look on her face when I walked in with her coffee made something in my chest go warm.
By the end of the first week, it was a routine. By the end of the second week, it was essential.
Six weeks later, I couldn’t imagine starting my day any other way.
I woke up at five every morning, same as I had for three years. The nightmares made sleeping past dawn impossible, and I’d learned to work with my body’s rhythm instead of fighting it. Quick shower, dress in my station uniform, out the door by five-thirty.
The Brew opened at five-forty-five specifically to catch the early crowd of emergency services and construction workers. Sarah was always there, usually with Jonah helping her prep for the day. They’d give me knowing looks when I ordered two oatmilk lattes instead of my usual black coffee, but they’d stopped commenting on it after the first week.
I was at Sable’s office by six every morning. She was always already there, tablet open, radio on, planning her day with the kind of focused intensity that made me understand why she was so good at her job.
“Morning,” I’d say, setting the coffee on her desk in the one clear space not covered with paperwork or emergency protocols.
“Morning, Beau.” She’d always look up, always smile just a little, always reach for the coffee like it was exactly what she needed.
We’d talk for ten minutes. Sometimes about work. Sometimes about nothing important. The weather. The new equipment the county was considering for emergency services. Whether the general store had finally gotten the good bread back in stock.
Small talk that felt significant because we were two people who didn’t do small talk with anyone else.
This morning, our seventh Wednesday of the coffee routine, something felt different.
Sable looked tired when I walked in. More tired than usual, with shadows under her eyes that suggested she hadn’t slept well. She reached for the coffee like a lifeline.
“You okay?” I asked, staying in the doorway instead of my usual position leaning against her filing cabinet.
“Fine. Long week.” She took a long drink of coffee, and I watched some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Thank you for this. I don’t say it enough, but it helps.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know. But I want to.” She set the cup down and looked at me, really looked at me. “Why are you doing this, Beau? And don’t say it’s efficient or convenient. I need the real answer.”
The honesty in her question deserved an honest answer, even if it scared me.
“Because you take your coffee with oat milk and two sugars, and you deserve to start your day with something that’s exactly right.” I shifted my weight, uncomfortable with the vulnerability. “And because I like the ten minutes we spend talking before our shifts start. Makes the nightmares worth it.”
I hadn’t meant to say that last part.
Sable went very still. “Nightmares?”
“Nothing important. Just old ghosts.” I moved toward the door, needing to escape before she asked questions I didn’t want to answer.
“Beau.” Her voice stopped me. “I get up at five every morning because if I don’t plan my entire day before six, I feel like I’m losing control. It’s not healthy. It’s probably not even functional. But it’s how I cope with being responsible for emergency services in three counties.”
The confession hung in the air between us, vulnerable and honest in a way that made my chest ache.
“I get up at five because if I don’t, the nightmares win,” I said, matching her honesty with my own. “Three years, and they haven’t gotten better. Just more familiar.”
“The rescue that went wrong.”
I nodded, surprised she’d remembered. I’d mentioned it once, briefly, during one of our early morning conversations. “Omega and her kid. Submerged vehicle. I was thirty seconds too slow.”
“That’s not the same as failing.”
