I moved through it like I didn’t belong. Every turn onto the dirt road came with the same thought: this isn’t mine. Every time I stepped inside and smelled wood polish and hay, I reminded myself: temporary.
I didn’t say the wordhome.Didn’t let it form.
Still, things slipped through. Morning light on the kitchen table. Horses breathing in the pasture. The way my chest loosened here, like it finally had room.
I liked it.
That scared me more than not knowing what came next.
Because liking meant wanting.
And wanting meant losing.
The shift had been brutal.
Structure fire on the east side of town, a duplex with faulty wiring that had sparked in the walls and spread before anyone smelled smoke. We'd gotten there fast, but not fast enough. The family had made it out. Most of them. The grandmother hadn't.
I could still smell the smoke in my hair, still feel the weight of her in my arms as I'd carried her out. Too late. Always too late.
I pulled into the ranch driveway as the sun was coming up, exhaustion sitting heavy in my bones. All I wanted was a shower and twelve hours of unconsciousness. Maybe more.
But when I walked through the front door, I smelled coffee. And bacon. And something sweet, like pancakes on a griddle.
Liam was in the kitchen.
Our shifts had been rotating lately, which meant we'd barely seen each other all week. He'd be leaving for the station when I came home, or I'd be heading out when he was just getting back. Ships passing in the night, if ships lived in the same house and shared awkward silences over the coffee maker.
It worked. One of us was always here.
Someone awake. Someone close enough to hear Mia’s door. The soft sounds that meant she was moving, not disappearing.
But today, he was here. Standing at the stove in worn jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, flipping pancakes like he'd been doing it his whole life.
I stopped in the doorway, taking in the quiet hum of the stove.
“You're up early.”
He looked over his shoulder, spatula hovering midair, and for a second our eyes held. Something warm flickered in his expression—concern, maybe, or something I didn't have time to name—before he turned back to the pan. My stomach did a small, unwelcome flip. I blamed exhaustion.
"Heard you pull up. Figured you might be hungry."
On the counter, a plate was already waiting. Pancakes stacked three high, bacon on the side, eggs that actually looked edible. And next to it, a mug of something that wasn't coffee. Steam rose from it, carrying a scent I recognized. Chamomile.
I picked it up, confused. "Tea?"
"Figured you'd want to sleep after you eat." He shrugged, turning back to the stove. "Coffee would just keep you wired. Chamomile's better for winding down."
I stared at the mug in my hands. Such a small thing. Such a nothing thing. He'd thought about what I needed, not just what I might want.
I stood in the kitchen doorway holding a mug of tea made by someone who paid attention, and I didn't know what to do with it.
"You didn't have to do this." The words came out flat, practiced. Like I was used to taking care of myself. Like I didn’t need this.
"I know." He slid another pancake onto the stack. "Rough shift?"
The question was casual, but something in his voice told me he already knew the answer. Maybe Cal had called. Maybe he'dheard it on the scanner. Or maybe he just recognized the look on my face, the one I thought I'd gotten better at hiding.
"Yeah." I took a sip of the tea—too hot, barely noticed. "Rough shift."
