“Structure fire,” the dispatcher crackles through the intercom. “Smoke reported at 121 Maple Hollow Drive.”
“Maple Hollow?” I grab my gear, heartbeat picking up. “That’s the old café?”
“Uh-huh,” Jamila says, sliding in beside me, helmet in her lap. “Grandma Aldridge. Best sour cherry pie I’ve ever had.”
“Thought that place shut down after the old woman passed,” someone mutters as we pile into the truck.
“She died?”
“A few years back. No one’s touched the place since.”
The engine growls to life, and we shoot out of the station. I brace against the doorframe, eyes on the road ahead, muscle memory already sorting through what I’ll need first—hose pressure, entry point, ventilation.
I can see the plume of smoke rising before we hit the main street.
Jamila’s quiet, checking her straps. I glance over, taking in her profile—the strong line of her jaw, the dark braid tucked beneath her helmet.
We’ve hooked up before. Friends with benefits kind of thing. Easy. No complications. Then she started sleeping with Captain Daniels, and we just… stopped. Didn’t bother me.
She looks happier. Settled.
“It sucked when the place closed. That place held too many good memories,” she says.
“Yeah?” I ask her.
She smirks. “Yeah. You know, I had my first kiss there?”
“You did?”
She lets out a little giggle. “Uh-huh. Jeremiah Fisher, fifth grade. Too bad he transferred the very next year.”
“I remember him. He was the kid with the unusually blue eyes?”
“That’s him. I think he was the best kiss I ever had.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I feel like I should be offended by that statement. Also, don’t let Captain D hear you.”
“Ah, he’s used to my antics.”
The truck lurches to a stop in front of the café, and the place is a mess of smoke and shattered calm. Old brickwork blackened by the flames licking around the back kitchen windows. Jamila pulls her helmet on.
“It’s a surprise this place is even standing,” she mutters as we jump out. “How the hell is it open?”
I don’t answer. My eyes catch movement near the front door.
There’s a woman—barefoot on the gravel, cradling a large orange cat like it’s the last thing tethering her to the earth. She’s in a worn blue sweater and jeans, smoke-streaked and blinking fast, like she’s not really seeing any of us.
Her hair is this wild, copper-red mass knotted into a messy bun, pieces falling loose like she lost the battle somewhere around sunrise. Freckles cover her pale skin like powdered cinnamon dusted across porcelain.
She’s soft curves and sharp angles and dazed defiance, and something about her expression punches something deep in my chest.
“Ma’am,” I call out, moving closer. “Are you okay? Anyone else inside?”
She shakes her head fast, clutches the cat tighter. “Just me and Pancake.”
The cat lets out a gravelly meow, ears flattened, tail twitching like it wants to be anywhere else.
“We need to get you away from the building,” I say gently. “Come on.”
