Our eyes met one last time. There was so much in his face I didn’t want to see—relief, worry, something like resolve—that I had to look away before it lodged somewhere dangerous.
“Thank you.” The words came out rough and soft and very, very real.
For the first time in a decade, there was no sarcasm between us. No armor. Just gratitude.
His mouth flattened, like he fought off something too big for here and now. “Anytime,” he said.
He meant it.
I turned away before I could do something really stupid, like cry or hug him or apologize for holding a grudge I hadn’t been ready to let go of.
Pepper steered me carefully down the sidewalk, past the knots of onlookers pretending not to stare. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on the weight of my friend’s arm around my waist.
I didn’t let myself look back until we reached the corner and I could pretend I was just checking for traffic before we crossed.
He was still there, a tall, soot-streaked figure standing near what remained of my truck, watching to make sure I didn’t fall.
For once, I didn’t hate that he was.
And that scared me almost as much as the fire had.
SEVEN
POWELL
By the time Pepper steered Jess around the corner and out of sight, the adrenaline had started to wear off, leaving that familiar post-call hollow buzzing behind my ribs.
She’d looked back once before they turned—just a quick flick of her gaze over her shoulder, emergency blanket crinkling around her. It hadn’t been a glare. That was the part that stuck.
I forced myself to turn away from the empty spot she’d just vacated and back toward the truck.
Pour Decisions was a mess.
The visible flame was out. The guys were in mop-up mode now, water hissing softly as they chased hot spots inside the Airstream shell. Steam and smoke still rolled out of the open side door in lazy curls. The twinkle lights Jess had so painstakingly strung up were melted in places, dangling in sad loops. Soot smeared the aluminum skin like someone had dragged a giant charcoal stick across it.
I walked the perimeter, boots splashing through runoff pooling by the curb. My gear felt heavier with every step. What had once been a cheerful little coffee oasis was now just a scorched metal box on wheels.
“Looks worse than it is,” Meatball said from the far side, as if he’d read my mind. He was our resident tinkerer—the guy capable of fixing anything with duct tape and a socket set. He’d taken off his mask and was leaning into the side door, flashlight beam cutting through the dimness. “Probably.”
“Define ‘worse,’” I said.
He snorted. “Well, she’s not serving lattes out of this tomorrow, I can tell you that much.”
The interior, from what I saw over his shoulder, was blackened and dripping. The counters were charred. The cabinet doors nearest the source of the fire were warped and split. The espresso machine—Jess’s pride and joy—was a half-melted silhouette under a layer of soot and foam.
My stomach twisted.
“Any idea what started it?” I asked.
Meatball shrugged one shoulder, beam moving slowly. “Hard to say for sure with this much damage and all the water we just put on it. Might’ve been wiring. Maybe a loose connection behind the counter. Could’ve been some random arc that picked the wrong moment. Nothing obvious screamed ‘somebody screwed up.’”
I let out a breath I hadn’t consciously been holding. “So… not negligence.”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” he said. “Sometimes shit just… happens.” He glanced back at me. “You know that.”
Yeah. I knew that. Didn’t mean I had to like it.
I crouched by the door, fingers brushing the twisted metal of the latch. The thing was mangled now, bent from where we’d forced it, but I remembered perfectly how it had fought Kelsey. How it had fought Jess. How it had fought me.
