He laughs at my panic—a wet sound, thick with emotion—and a single tear escapes down his cheek. He looks away quickly, swiping at it with the back of his hand like he's embarrassed to be caught showing feeling.
"Sorry," he says quietly, and there's no trace of the playful flirtation from before. Just raw honesty. "It's just... the only person who's ever been able to make a cup like this was my grandma."
Oh.
The word lands in my chest like a weight. Like a gift I wasn't expecting and don't know how to hold.
His grandmother. I just made something that reminded him of his grandmother. That's why he's crying—not because thecoffee is bad, but because it's good. Because it brought back memories of someone he loved. Someone he lost.
He takes a breath, steadying himself, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are still shining but his smile is warm. Genuine. The kind of smile that transforms his entire face into something softer, younger, more vulnerable than the charming firefighter who walked into this kitchen twenty minutes ago.
"She actually passed away," he continues, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. "A year ago yesterday."
A year ago yesterday. That's why he was visiting Tank this morning—not just because he couldn't reach him, but because he needed his pack. Needed to be around people who understood. Who remembered.
"I've been trying to act like it doesn't bother me," he admits, staring down at the mug in his hands like it holds answers instead of coffee. "Like the anniversary isn't a big deal. But this..." He gestures vaguely, encompassing the drink, the kitchen, me. "This brought back such amazing memories. The way she'd make this exact order every Sunday morning. The way the whole house would smell like cardamom and honey. The way she'd sit at the kitchen table and tell me stories about when she was young."
I feel something tight in my chest. Something that aches in sympathy for this man I barely know, who's sharing something so personal with me over a cup of coffee I made on a whim.
He sets the mug down carefully on the counter, like it's something precious, and meets my eyes again.
"She's the one who encouraged me to do what I'm passionate about," he says, and there's pride in his voice now. Warmth. The kind of love that doesn't fade even when the person is gone. "I'm pretty talented, actually. Could have been a well-known engineer—I had offers from firms that would have set me up for life. The kind of offers that would have made my parents proud, madethe family name mean something in circles that care about that stuff."
He shrugs, and there's no regret in the gesture. Just acceptance. Peace.
"But I like being a firefighter. The thrill of putting my life on the line to save someone else's. It's satisfying in the oddest way. Knowing that at the end of a shift, you've actuallydonesomething. Made a difference. Been useful to someone who needed you in their worst moment."
He pauses, and the playful glint returns to his eyes—a defense mechanism, maybe, or just his natural tendency toward lightness.
"Similar to going to war, I guess," he adds with a wink, "but I don't fit the quota in the scary department. Not like Tank, obviously."
A low grumble comes from somewhere behind us.
"Now why am I being called scary in my own house?"
The voice is deep, familiar, and entirely too close. I spin around—and promptly feel all the blood in my body rush to my face.
Tank is standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with the kind of casual grace that should be illegal this early in the morning. He's shirtless.Completelyshirtless. Just a pair of black boxer briefs slung low on his hips, leaving approximately ninety percent of his ridiculous body on full display.
And that body...oh God, that body...
He's all muscle—the kind that comes from years of disciplined training, not vanity workouts at a fancy gym. His shoulders are impossibly broad, his chest carved with definition that makes my mouth go dry. The tattoos I explored so thoroughly last night are on full display: intricate designs that wrap around his arms and climb across his pectorals, sacredsymbols and geometric patterns that tell stories I haven't had time to learn yet.
But it's not the muscles or the ink that makes me want to melt into the floor and disappear forever.
I did anumberon the poor man.
Hickeys scatter across his chest like a constellation of poor life choices—some dark purple, some still faintly red, mapping the path my mouth took last night when I was too far gone to care about leaving marks. Bite marks decorate his shoulders, distinct impressions of teeth that I definitely don't remember leaving but clearly did. And across his tattooed arms, angry red scratches stand out against the ink, evidence of exactly how...enthusiasticthings got during certain moments.
There's even a mark on his neck. Right at the junction where shoulder meets throat. The kind of mark that's impossible to miss, impossible to hide, impossible to explain away as anything other than exactly what it is.
I look like I attacked him. I literally look like I tried to eat him alive. What is wrong with me? Why did I—how did I—oh no, Elias is looking at me?—
Elias's gaze tracks slowly from Tank's devastated torso to my burning face, and a grin spreads across his features that can only be described asdelighted.
"Wow," he says, dragging the word out into multiple syllables. "Our coffee extraordinaire is a wild one in the bedroom, huh?"
"NO!" The word explodes out of me, high-pitched and panicked. "S-S-S-She can explain! I mean,Ican explain! It wasn't—I didn't—we just?—"
