I take another drink, the warmth curling through me. The cocoa’s rich with a hint of vanilla that drags my mind somewhere I shouldn’t let it go. Millie again—her hair, her lips, the way her scent filled my lungs like a drug. I push the thought away hard, focusing on the pastry instead.
The layers flake apart in my hands, sweet and soft. My stomach growls; I didn’t realize how hungry I am.
Jake finishes his in three bites. “So, what do you think?”
“About the pastry?”
“The town.”
I glance around—the weathered signs, the ocean air, the way everyone seems to know each other. It’s not New York. It’s not even close. But there’s something about the quiet that’s… good.
“I think it’s going to take some getting used to,” I say finally. “But it feels right.”
“Good,” Jake says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “We’ll swing by the pier next. There’s a fish shack that doubles as a gossip center. You’ll hear every story within a ten-mile radius before lunch.”
“Great,” I mutter, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
He catches it and smirks. “You smiling, Sheriff? Careful, people might think you like it here.”
“Maybe I do.”
We drive again, the sun burning through the fog. Every turn gives me more of the town—boats bobbing in the harbor, kids on bikes, a few shop signs painted by hand. It’s simple, and I think that’s the point. A place that makes you want to stay even if you didn’t plan to.
As we pass the library, I notice the sign out front—Driftwood Cove Public Library.It does look a bit damaged by the fires, which is terrible for me.
I guess I’ll have to look for a book shop so I can get research material on this new town.
Jake keeps talking, explaining road names and local routes, but my mind drifts. I can still feel her. The brush of her knee against mine. The sound of her breath. I tell myself to let it go—it was one night, one fantastic fuck—but the more I try, the harder it gets.
When we stop at a red light, I catch sight of my reflection in the rearview mirror—eyes darker than usual, jaw tight. I look like a man trying to forget something he doesn’t actually want to forget.
By the time we loop back toward the square, the day’s in full swing. I’ve met half the business owners already, shaken hands with people whose names I’ll forget by tonight, and answered the same question ten times: “You from the city?”
Yeah. But I’m not sure I belong there anymore.
Jake pulls up outside the station again, stretching. “Not bad for your first morning, huh?”
“Not bad,” I agree, stepping out into the bright air. The town hums around us. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean crashes against the cliffs.
I take another sip of cocoa, the last of it lukewarm but still perfect. “You were right,” I say. “This place grows on you.”
Jake grins. “Told you. Give it a week, you’ll start wearing flannel unironically.”
I laugh, shaking my head. But as I look down the street, a single thought cuts through everything else.
If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll see her again.
Maddox
Ikeep my head down as we move through the firehouse bay, the scrape of boots against concrete loud over the hum of the overhead fans. The rookies—Riley, Marco, and Rhys—trail a step behind the older guys, shifting nervously with their hoses and gear, like they’re afraid the building itself will swallow them whole if they don’t measure up.
I don’t blame them. Being new around here means every second is a test, even if no one tells you.
Angela’s on the other side of the room, busy filing something at the metal counter. She was transferred from another station a few months ago. It’s official now—no more off-and-on confusion between us. She’s sharp, quick to laugh, the kind of firefighter who can make everyone under her wing feel like they’re on top of the world one second and in trouble the next.
Everyone’s sizing her up, of course. New girl, hotshot reputation. She gets it.
“Morning, Maddox,” Rhys says, voice tight, like he’s trying not to look like he’s about to choke on his own tongue.
