“That’s what I’ve been saying for years,” Rhodes called from where she’d followed us in. “But nobody listens to me.”
“May I?” Sable was already moving toward the machine, setting down her tablet and inspecting the various components with the same systematic attention she’d given to the drill evaluation.
“Be my guest,” I said, oddly fascinated by watching her work. Her movements were precise but not hesitant, like she’d done this exact task a hundred times in a hundred different locations. “Though I should warn you, that machine has defeated better people than you.”
“Challenge accepted, Calder.”
“Beau,” I corrected automatically, then wanted to take it back when Rhodes shot me a knowing look.
Sable didn’t respond, too focused on dismantling the coffee maker’s filter basket and examining it with an expression of scientific disapproval. “When was this last deep cleaned?”
I exchanged a glance with Rhodes, who suddenly found her inventory clipboard extremely interesting.
“Right.” Sable set the basket aside and opened the cabinet below the sink, emerging with cleaning supplies and a scrub brush. “This might take a few minutes.”
“You don’t have to…” I started.
“Do you want good coffee or not, Calder?”
Beau, I wanted to correct again. Instead, I found myself pulling up a chair at the small kitchen table and watching her work. There was something almost meditative about it, the way she methodically cleaned each component, checked water lines, and inspected gaskets for wear.
“You do this a lot?” I asked when the silence stretched a little too long.
“I’ve coordinated out of more fire stations, emergency operation centers, and temporary command posts than I can count.” She rinsed the filter basket under hot water, scrubbing with efficient motions. “You learn pretty quickly that good coffee is the difference between functional coordination and everyone wanting to strangle each other by hour six of a crisis.”
“Practical.”
“Everything in emergency management is practical, or it should be.” She reassembled the machine with the kind of casual competence that spoke of real understanding, not just following instructions. “The impractical stuff is what gets people killed.”
There was something in her tone, something hard-edged and certain, that made me wonder what she’d seen to build that philosophy. But before I could figure out how to ask, she was pouring fresh water into the reservoir and measuring grounds with the precision of a chemist.
“Black, two sugars?” I guessed, remembering her comment about station coffee crimes.
She glanced at me, surprise flickering across her face. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.” Not a guess at all. I’d been paying attention to her all morning, cataloging details I had no business noticing. Like how she took notes on her tablet with her right hand but wore her watch on her right wrist, suggesting she was left-handed but had learned to adapt. Or how she touched her arm over what was no doubt a suppressant patch whenever she was thinking hard about something, an unconscious gesture that made my alpha want to know what she was suppressing and why.
Not my business. Not my place to wonder.
I’d given up the right to wonder about omegas three years ago, when I’d pulled an omega and her kid from a submerged vehicle and realized too late that I’d been too slow, too careful, too focused on procedure when I should have just moved faster.
The coffee maker gurgled to life, and the scent that began to fill the kitchen was exponentially better than anything that machine had produced in recent memory.
“There,” Sable said with satisfaction. “That’s coffee.”
“Marry me,” Rhodes said from the doorway, where she’d apparently been watching the entire process.
Sable turned, startled, and I watched color rise in her cheeks. “I just cleaned your machine.”
“And gave us the first decent cup of coffee this station has had in six months. That’s basically a marriage proposal in fire service culture.” Rhodes was grinning, completely ignoring my attempt to make eye contact and telepathically tell her to stop talking.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sable said dryly, but there was something softer in her expression now, less guarded.
The machine finished brewing, and she poured three mugs with the same efficient movements she’d used for everything else. Two sugars in hers from the jar on the counter, black for Rhodes, and she’d paused with the sugar spoon over mine.
“Black, one sugar,” I said quietly. “Thanks for remembering to ask.”
Something flickered in her eyes, there and gone too fast to name. “Simple courtesy.”
