Kendrick is across the room, talking to a woman about my age with curly dark hair pulled into a bun and a little girl perchedon her hip. The kid looks about five and is concentrating fiercely on coloring something on a clipboard.
Kendrick says something to them, and the woman—Abby, her name tag reads—laughs, bumping her hip against his leg in a sisterly, coworker kind of way. The little girl—Danielle—looks up and hands Kendrick a purple crayon. He takes it with a straight face, draws a line, and hands it back.
It’s stupidly cute. And unfair.
I swallow and take a step further into the room.
A few firefighters look up, including a blond guy at a table who nudges the person next to him and whispers something I cannot possibly interpret as anything good.
Then someone whistles.
Oh no.
Kendrick’s head snaps up.
His expression shifts—surprise first, then something more unreadable—before settling back into his usual steady calm, like nothing rattles him. Which, to be fair, maybe it doesn’t.
I lift the muffin tin like it’s a peace offering.
“Hi,” I say, way too brightly. “I brought carbs.”
That earns me at least three grins and one loud “Sweet!” from a guy with a buzz cut.
Before I know it, the muffins have been claimed, inspected, and devoured by a flock of hungry firefighters who apparently operate like seagulls at a beach picnic.
Kendrick approaches more slowly, hands in his pockets, that unreadable expression still there.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.
“I kind of did,” I reply. “Apology muffins for… everything.”
One of the guys behind him snorts. “Everything? Gonna be a long list, huh, Kendrick?”
Kendrick doesn’t punch him, which shows impressive restraint.
“It was a very short list,” I say quickly. “Just the… you know… tree incidents.”
“Incidents?” another firefighter echoes. “Plural?”
I glare at Kendrick like this is somehow his fault.
He lifts one shoulder. “She finds trouble.”
“I findlight,” I correct.
A round of muffled laughter ripples through the room.
Kendrick rubs a hand over his jaw, and when his eyes meet mine again, something softens. Barely. But I see it.
“You don’t need to apologize,” he says. “Just stop putting yourself in danger.”
“I wasn’t in danger.”
“Emma.”
Fine. Maybe slightly in danger. But still.
Behind him, Blond Tease Guy leans forward. “Hey, Kendrick—since you two are best friends now, why don’t you show her around? You know all the good spots.”
