Behind me, footsteps crunch over broken glass and blackened tiles. Roxy appears, fire coat peeled open, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes sharp despite the ash smudging her cheekbone.
“You good?” she asks, not unkindly. There’s something behind her tone, though—something knowing.
I nod. Too fast. “Yeah.”
She squints at me like she doesn’t buy it. “You zoned out there for a second. Thought I’d lost you to the smoke too.”
I adjust my grip on the cat. “I’m fine. … not every day someone opens the Aldridge Café after years of dust and silence.”
“Not every day someone that hot does it,” Roxy adds casually. “Jesus, did you see those eyes? Like moss during a thunderstorm. And that hair?—”
“I noticed,” I say before she can keep going.
She tilts her head, amused. “Uh-huh.”
Roxy is part of our crew and the only openly gay firefighter on the team. She’s also one of the most reliable team members.
I glance back toward the scorched remains of the kitchen. “Place is totaled.”
“Not as bad as it could’ve been,” Jamila says. “We got here just in time.”
But itfeelsbad, like more than smoke and flame were lost here. Like someone tried to bring something old and beautiful back to life, and the universe just spat it out.
“Her grandma was a legend,” Roxy says, almost to herself. “Maple pecan scones, cardamom buns. My mom used to drag me here every Friday after school. I hated it. Too girly, too sweet. But now? I’d sell a lung to taste one of those scones again.”
“She’s trying,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Wren. That’s her name.”
Roxy raises a brow. “You asked?”
“No. She said it. When she was trying to keep it together.”
“Hmm.” She pulls her gloves off slowly. “You should take a shower. You reek of burnt sugar and adrenaline.”
I nod again, distracted. My fingers stroke down Pancake’s back, and the cat makes a noise somewhere between a purr and a warning.
The engine crew starts wrapping up hoses and packing gear. The guys are laughing over something someone said, trying to shake off the tension.
I can’t stop picturing the way Wren looked at the mess—like her heart had cracked wide open and she wasn’t sure which piece to pick up first.
And I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked atme.
Not like a hero. Not even like a stranger. Like she wasn’t expecting anyone to help, and when I did, it undid something tight and private in her chest.
I exhale and glance down at Pancake. “Looks like you’re bunking with me for the night.”
The cat makes no argument. Just flicks his tail like he’s used to being inconvenient.
As I walk out into the cooler night air, past the Harvest Festival posters flapping gently against the power poles and the singed scent of memory still rising from the cracked pavement, I realize something really unsettling:
I want to see her again.
Not just check in. Not just return her cat.
I want to knowwhyshe came back. Why now. Why alone.
And why the hell does the scent of her still cling to my skin like I’ve carried her with me?
Roxy watches me from beside the rig. “You sure you’re okay?”
