He looked up.
And then he looked… sorry.
Not startled. Not confused.
Sorry.
My stomach dropped.
“He left,” he said gently.
“Left?” I repeated.
“Yeah. He was wiped. Went home early.”
“Oh,” I said.
He studied my face, like he was bracing for something. “He said to tell you he was sorry.”
I nodded, even though my head felt too light. “Okay. Yeah. That’s—fine.”
The wordfinelanded wrong. Hollow.
I glanced down at the coffee in my hand, then back up at the gleaming trucks, the familiar morning hum of the firehouse continuing like nothing had changed.
“I’ll just—catch him later,” I said.
The pity in his eyes followed me all the way back out.
I shut myself into my car and sat there, hands shaking around the steering wheel.
The smell of coffee filled the space. Hot. Sweet. Useless.
I pulled out my phone and dialed.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Straight to voicemail.
No text. No missed call. No explanation waiting.
I didn’t leave a message.
I didn’t cry.
Not there. Not with the radios chirping and the coffee percolating and the red trucks gleaming like everything was still exactly where it should be.
I smiled, waved, and walked back out into the morning.
The second my car door shut, the silence hit me like a wave.
I stared at the steering wheel. At my hands. At the Dunkin’ logo on the bag sitting in the passenger seat, grease already starting to bleed through the paper.
He didn’t call.
He didn’t even email.
