"Your impersonation's getting better," I tell him, grinning despite myself.
"Three demerits last month for 'inappropriate humor during drill,'" Austin admits with a shrug. "Worth it though. Your brother secretly loves it, he just can't let the rookie win."
"Rookie?" I raise an eyebrow. "Hasn't it been, like, almost a year?"
"I'll be 'the rookie' until someone newer comes along," he explains. "Station tradition."
"Your usual, Austin?" Ellie interrupts, already writing on a cup.
"Please," he says, then adds with a playful wink, "Extra hot, like my calendar photo."
Ellie rolls her eyes but can't hide her smile.
"Are you getting ready for the Winter Market? Your brother mentioned you've been working around the clock." He asks after turning back to me.
"Paul has a big mouth," I say, but there's no heat in it. "But yes, final push. You'll be there, right? The department always has a booth."
"We'll be there. Safety demonstrations, calendar sales, the works." He hesitates, then adds, "I heard your booth is always the highlight."
Something about the way he says it makes my cheeks warm. "That's an exaggeration, but I do make a pretty great hot chocolate mug."
Logan coughs dramatically. "If you two are done with whatever this is, some of us have a fire station to get back to."
Austin's ears redden slightly. "Right, coffee and go." He reaches past me to pay for both our drinks, waving off my protest. "Consider it a thank you for the mug you made for the station kitchen. Everyone fights over it."
"That's... thank you." The words feel inadequate, but he seems to understand, nodding as he takes his coffee from Ellie.
"See you at the market if not before," he says, and then he's following Logan and Bradley out the door, leaving me with a vanilla latte and a strange flutter in my stomach that I choose to attribute to caffeine.
Back at the studio, with new glazes unpacked and arranged on my workbench, I lose myself in the rhythm of dipping and brushing.
The afternoon passes in a blur of color and concentration, my hands moving almost independently of my thoughts, which keep drifting back to the café. To Austin's smile. To that moment of connection that felt both new and familiar.
I shake my head, redirecting my focus to the celadon green glaze I'm applying to a set of dessert plates. The color reminds me of pine trees against snow, perfect for the winter theme I've planned for my booth.
I've arranged my display a dozen times in my head—the hanging mugs with their forest motifs, the nesting bowls with their gradient blues, the statement pieces that showcase my most intricate carving work.
Bertha the kiln makes a sound I haven't heard before, a faint clicking followed by a subtle change in her usual hum. I pause, brush mid-air, listening. The clicking stops. Probably nothing, but I make a mental note to check the manual later.
The kiln is only two years old, but I've been pushing it hard this season.
As twilight settles outside my windows, I stand back to survey the day's progress. Rows of freshly glazed pieces wait to be fired, their surfaces still wet and gleaming under the string lights. Tomorrow they'll transform in the fire, colors deepening, glazes melting into glassy finishes that will surprise me no matter how many times I witness the process.
I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache of a productive day in my shoulders. The kiln casts an orange glow across the floor, steadyand comforting. Old jazz plays softly from my speakers, and outside, the first stars appear in the darkening sky.
Everything feels right in this moment—my hands still carrying the memory of clay, my mind full of possibilities, my heart quietly humming with an unexpected new awareness.
The kiln makes that unfamiliar sound again, a little louder this time, but I'm too caught in the flow of creativity to give it more than a passing thought.
Instead, I sit at my work table, pull my sketchbook close, and begin planning tomorrow's pieces, my pencil moving across the page as Bertha's orange glow bathes everything in warm light.
Chapter 2 – Austin
Evening light fades outside the station windows as I organize the last of the medical supplies on Engine 2. The familiar weight of duty and routine grounds me as I check each item off my mental list.
"Rivers, you planning to inventory that same shelf all night?" Logan calls from across the bay, zipping up his jacket. "Some of us have places to be."
I slide the trauma kit back into its compartment. "Just being thorough."
