Chapter 1 – Logan
The cold hits like a slap when I push through the station's back door with December air that makes my lungs seize for half a second before remembering how to work.
"Price! Gloves?" Paul calls from beside Engine 12, not looking up from the gauges he's checking. Steam rises from his coffee mug on the nearby workbench, curling in the half-light of the apparatus bay.
I pat my jacket pocket. "Got 'em this time, Chief."
"Miracles never cease," he mutters, but I catch the ghost of a smile beneath his perpetual frown. Paul's version of affection.
Last night's snowfall has transformed our little corner into something almost unfairly beautiful. Morning light spills across Emberstone Avenue, the brick storefronts wear white caps, smoke drifting from chimneys in lazy corkscrews that disappear against the pale sky.
"Bean run?" Austin appears beside Paul, tucking in his uniform shirt with one hand, hair still damp from the shower. Two years on the job, and the kid still looks like he's playing dress-up sometimes. "Can you grab me—"
"Your usual peppermint monstrosity with extra whip?" I finish for him. "The one that's basically a dessert pretending to be coffee?"
"It's seasonal," he protests, grinning. "Limited time only."
I back away, boot heels crunching through fresh powder. "Text me if Bradley wants anything."
The morning quiet settles around me as I head down our plowed walkway. Five blocks of peace where I'm not Lieutenant Price with lives depending on my decisions. Where I'm just Logan, watching a town wake up, breath clouding in front of me like visible evidence I'm still here.
The peacefulness shatters when I spot a flash of red across the street, a coat so bright against winter's palette it might as well be shouting.
Something in me recognizes her before my brain catches up: the tilt of her head, the way she gestures with both hands when she talks, the sound of her laugh carrying in the cold air.
Chloe.
My steps halt. Seeing her still feels like putting weight on a bruise I didn't realize was there.
She looks good. Blond hair catching sunlight as she talks animatedly to a couple who are clearly tourists—matching jackets, bewildered smiles, the woman clutching a town map with mittened hands.
I should keep walking. Nod politely if she sees me. Act like a grown man instead of feeling this sudden tight-chested panic.
That's when she shifts, and morning light catches something on her left hand, something that definitely wasn't there before. Something that winks and gleams, unmistakable even from thirty feet away.
A diamond. A statement of a diamond.
My stomach drops like I've missed a step on a staircase.
Her eyes find mine across the street, widening with recognition. She lifts her hand in a hesitant wave. Says something to her companions, already making excuses to step away.
To come talk to me.
Every self-preservation instinct fires at once. Without conscious decision, I'm moving—not running exactly, but walking with the determined stride of someone who's just remembered an urgent appointment across town. I round the corner onto Maple, past Natalie flipping the sign at Moonlight and Manuscripts, past old Mr. Wilson meticulously clearing ice from the post office steps.
I'm nearly at The Enchanted Bean before my heartbeat begins to normalize. The golden glow from its windows feels like a sanctuary.
The door jingles softly as I push inside. Heat envelops me along with the layered scents of the cafe: fresh coffee, cinnamon, vanilla, the yeasty warmth of whatever's just come from the ovens.
I scan for Ellie, the usual morning barista, but instead spot another girl behind the counter. She's arranging a tray of what look like gingerbread scones in the display case, a streak of flour dusting one cheek, wisps of honey-brown hair escaping her bun. Her movements are quick but deliberate, a small furrow of concentration between her brows as she adjusts each pastry.
I've exchanged pleasantries with her dozens of times but realized, with a strange jolt, that I've never reallylookedat her until this moment.
"Morning," I say, approaching the counter.
Savannah—as her name tag helpfully supplies—startles, nearly dropping the metal tong she's holding. It clatters against thedisplay case, and a scone teeters precariously before she steadies it with quick fingers.
"Lieutenant!" Her cheeks flush deeper than they already were from the kitchen heat. She takes a breath, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Good morning. What can I get you?"
