“You want to talk about it?”
“Not yet.” She set the coffee down and pulled up her schedule on her tablet, signaling the shift back to normal conversation. “But maybe soon.”
I didn’t push. Sable shared things in her own time, and pushing only made her retreat behind her walls.
We talked about the emergency drill scheduled for next week, about the new county protocols, and whether the autumn weather would hold through the weekend. Normal conversation that felt comfortable and essential and like the foundation of something neither of us was ready to name.
When I left ten minutes later, I caught myself thinking about her question. About bodies knowing things brains didn’t want to accept.
My body knew I wanted her. Had known it since that first day in the fire station kitchen when she’d fixed the coffee machine with focused competence. Had known it every morning since when I showed up at her office and felt settled in a way I hadn’t in three years.
But my brain insisted I didn’t deserve to want anyone. That I’d failed once, and failing again would break something fundamental inside me.
So I brought her coffee every morning and told myself it was just routine. Just friendship. Just two people who understood what it meant to carry guilt and build walls to protect themselves.
Even though I knew it was more than that.
Even though I suspected she knew it too.
The lunch thing with Silas was different. Less routine, more deliberate. They’d been meeting twice a week at The Brew for the past month, and I could tell it was good for her. She smiled more. Laughed at his terrible stories. Let her guard down in ways she didn’t with me.
I wasn’t jealous. Or at least, I was trying not to be jealous.
“She’s good for him too,” Sarah mentioned one afternoon when I stopped by The Brew for coffee. “Silas hasn’t been thisgenuinely happy in years. Usually, he’s performing happiness. With her, it’s real.”
I thought about that. About how all three of us were somehow better versions of ourselves when Sable was around. How she made us want to try instead of just surviving.
Dane was the holdout. He watched from a distance, never pushing, never crowding. But I’d seen him watching her during emergency coordination meetings. Seen the way his attention never strayed far from where she was.
Protective without being possessive. Present without being overbearing.
It was the kind of careful balance that came from someone who’d learned the hard way what happened when you cared too much.
The car thing happened on a Wednesday.
Sable had been at a late community meeting, and I’d already gone home when my phone buzzed with a message from Dane in the group text.
Her car won’t start. She’s still at the office. I’m heading over.
Silas’s response came quickly.Keep us posted.
Twenty minutes later, Dane updated.Giving her a ride home. Battery’s dead. I’ll handle it.
I stared at that message for a long time, fighting the urge to ask questions I had no right to ask. Questions about how she’d reacted, whether she’d argued about needing help, whether Dane had finally broken through the careful distance he’d been maintaining.
The next morning, Sable was quiet during our coffee routine.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Dane gave me a ride home last night.” She said it casually, but there was something underneath the words. “My car battery died.”
“I heard. He mentioned it in the group text.”
“Of course he did.” But she didn’t sound annoyed. She sounded thoughtful. “He said he always knows where I am. That he needs to know I’m safe.”
“That bother you?”
She was quiet for a long moment. “It should. It should feel controlling or creepy or invasive. But it doesn’t. It just feels like someone cares whether I make it home.”
