"So ready! Can we see the waterfall? And the ice cream place? And will I get to meet your cat? Can we—"
"One thing at a time," I interrupt, stepping forward and trying not to notice how Cade's eyes track my movement. "Good morning."
"Morning." He holds out one of the coffee cups. "I didn't know if you had already taken a coffee today, and have no idea how you take it anymore, so I got it the way you used to. Two creams, one sugar. If that's wrong, I can—"
"It’s my first today and you’re not wrong." I take the cup. "It's exactly right. Thank you."
"Shall we?" He gestures down the hallway, and Ruby is already moving, chattering about all the things she wants to see.
He remembered how I take my coffee. After eight years, he remembered. And somehow, that small detail feels like maybe, just maybe, not everything between us is broken beyond repair.
Chapter 7 - Cade
I remembered how she takes her coffee.
The realization hit me at three in the morning when I was lying awake, staring at my ceiling while Scout judged me from her perch on the dresser. Two creams, one sugar. Sierra always said it was the perfect balance—sweet enough to be a treat, bitter enough to still taste like coffee.
I remembered, and I couldn't decide if that made me pathetic or hopeful. Now, watching her wrap her hands around that cup like it's something precious, I'm leaning toward hopeful.
"So where are we going first?" Ruby asks, practically skipping down the sidewalk. She's holding my hand, just reached out and grabbed it like it's the most natural thing in the world, and I'm trying not to make a big deal about it even though it feels like the most important thing that's ever happened to me.
"I thought we'd start with the park," I say. "It's got a good playground, and there's a trail that loops around the lake. Easy walk, good views. Sound good?"
"Sounds perfect." Sierra's walking on Ruby's other side, and I catch her watching me over Ruby's head.
The morning is cool and clear, the kind of spring day that makes you remember why you live in a place with real seasons. The mountains in the distance are still capped with snow, and the air smells like pine and fresh-cut grass from someone's early lawn maintenance.
We walk the three blocks to Riverside Park, Ruby filling the silence with observations about everything she sees: the vintage movie theater with its art deco marquee, the bookstore with the fat orange cat sleeping in the window, the hardware store with garden supplies spilling onto the sidewalk.
"It's bigger than home," she announces. "But in a good way. Like everyone probably still knows everyone."
"They pretty much do," I confirm. "Which means everyone will definitely know about you by the end of the day. Small town news travels fast."
"Will they be nice about it?" Sierra asks quietly, and I hear the worry underneath.
"Yeah." I'm certain of this. "Blackwater Falls is a good town. Good people. They'll be curious but not mean."
We reach the park and Ruby gasps. It's a pretty impressive setup for a small town: a modern playground with climbing structures and slides, a splash pad (currently off for the season), picnic areas, and beyond it all, the lake glittering in the morning sun.
"Can I go play?" Ruby is already tugging toward the playground.
"Go ahead," Sierra says. "Stay where we can see you."
Ruby takes off, making a beeline for the climbing structure, and suddenly it's just Sierra and me, standing side by side, watching our daughter scale a rope ladder with more confidence than seems wise.
"She's fearless," I observe, my chest tight with a mixture of pride and terror. "You weren't kidding about that."
"She keeps me up at night." Sierra takes a sip of her coffee. "Every time she climbs something or tries something new, I have a minor heart attack."
"I'm not like that anymore, you know?"
Sierra glances at me. "Aren't you? You run into burning buildings for a living, Cade."
"That's different. That's calculated risk. Training and protocol and—" I stop, realizing she's got a point. "Okay, maybe I'm still a little like that."
"More than a little." There's something almost fond in her voice. "Ruby asked me once why I won't let her join the rock climbing team, and I didn't know how to explain that it's because she'd be too good at it. That she'd push herself too hard, climb too high, and I'd die from stress."
I watch Ruby hang upside down from a bar, her ponytail brushing the ground, completely unconcerned about the fact that she's defying gravity. "Did you end up letting her join?"
