Before I can process that, the door jingles and my stomach drops.
Ryder walks in with two other firefighters, all of them in department t-shirts and carrying the exhaustion of a long shift. His hair's damp like he just showered, and there's a new bruise along his jaw that definitely wasn't there last night.
Our eyes meet across the crowded shop.
He freezes mid-step, something unreadable crossing his face. Then one of his companions—a stocky guy with a impressive mustache—notices me and grins.
"That's her, isn't it? The neighbor?"
"Thompson, don't—" Ryder starts, but it's too late.
Thompson's already heading over, hand extended and smile wide. "Bob Thompson, engineer on Engine 3. You're the one who helped with blankets at the Timber & Tap call."
"Piper." I shake his hand, hyperaware of Ryder standing ten feet away pretending to study the menu board he's probably memorized. "Just trying to help however I could."
"We appreciate it. Not everyone thinks to bring comfort items." He glances back at Ryder. "Captain here said you've been settling in well. Learning the ropes of cabin life."
Ryder's jaw tightens, and his expression clearly says he never said anything of the sort.
"He's been very... educational," I say carefully. "I now know at least a dozen different ways I was doing fire-starting wrong."
Tommy laughs. "Sounds about right. Lockwood's thorough. Saved my ass more times than I can count." He claps Ryder on the shoulder as he passes. "Your mocha's getting cold, Cap."
Ryder approaches my table with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to a dental appointment. He doesn't sit, just stands there looking uncomfortable while holding his to-go cup.
"About last night—" he starts.
"It's fine," I cut in, waving him off with a brightness that sounds fake even to my own ears. "Completely understood. You were tired, I was grateful, crossed wires happen. No big deal."
"Piper—"
"Seriously, Ryder. We're neighbors. That's all. I get it." I turn back to my laptop, fingers poised over keys I'm not actually typing on. "I should probably finish this edit anyway. Big deadline. Very important content about... coffee mugs."
The silence stretches long enough that I risk a glance up. He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read—something between frustration and regret with a dash of what might be longing.
"I'm coming to your game Friday," I blurt out, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain. "Diane is saving me a seat. Said you do a 'thing' in the first period that I need to see."
His eyes widen slightly. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to." The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. "I mean, for content. Small-town sports culture. Very authentic Alaskan experience."
"Right. Content." His voice is flat. "Of course."
He starts to leave, then pauses. Without looking at me, he says quietly, "Section C has the best view of the ice. Diane knows what she's doing."
Then he's gone, following Tommy out into the cold, and I'm left staring at my untouched glitter mocha while something twists in my chest.
Dotty appears beside my table with a knowing look. "You know what I think?"
"Do I want to?"
"That boy hasn't looked at anyone the way he looks at you in years." She picks up my mug, wipes a non-existent ring from the table, then sets the mug back down. "And you don't look at him like you're just here for content."
"I barely know him."
"Sometimes that's when it matters most—before you build up all the walls and excuses." She heads back to the counter, calling over her shoulder, "Friday night. Wear layers. The arena gets cold."
I stare after her, my mind caught on what she just said. The pieces feel important, but I don't have enough of them to see the full picture. And the fact that I want to know—that I'm already cataloging these thoughts like they matter—tells me I'm in deeper trouble than I thought.
