Chapter Three #2
I look up then, finally. His eyes are locked on mine, and for a moment the whole café fades out. No chatter, no hum of the espresso machine. Just him standing there with that smug tilt of his mouth like he already knows the answer.
“Some of us prefer slow burns,” I say, voice low, clipped.
His grin widens. Not the cocky one he throws around town, but something sharper. Like I gave him exactly what he came for.
“Then come watch the chaos,” he offers, too smooth. “I’ll be the one making little kids laugh and old ladies blush.”
“I’m sure you will.” My hands move automatically, grabbing a cup, adjusting the stack beside me. No customers in sight, but I need something between us. Anything.
“Good at a lot of things,” he adds, lazy confidence rolling off him, and I grip the cup hard enough that it squeaks against the counter.
Aaron snorts and busies himself with the register again. Coward.
Jules taps the flyer once, leaving it front and center on the counter like a challenge. “Think about it.”
He doesn’t wait for a response. Just turns, hair catching the afternoon sun through the glass. He pauses in the doorway for half a heartbeat, like he’s giving me the chance to look up.
I don’t.
The bell chimes as the door swings shut, leaving the café quieter than before. The flyer is still there, impossible to ignore, impossible not to see.
I pick up the rag again, but my grip falters. My hands aren’t as steady as I want them to be.
That damn flyer feels louder than the machines, louder than my thoughts.
Like him.
I don’t move. Just stare at the flyer like it’s trying too hard to prove a point.
Bold lettering, obnoxious design. Fire emojis. A goddamn bounce house.
Firefighters Day Charity Bash
A whole mess of words fighting for space: Live Auction, Calendar Signing, Dunk Tank, BBQ, Bounce House.
Hosted by Sleighbell Springs Fire Department, because apparently chaos now comes with a donation box.
Beneath the bold text is a photo of last year’s crew, half of them shirtless, flexing like they just finished filming a recruitment ad. One of the drag queens from Sleigh Queen’s Drag Bar is draped across a fireman’s shoulders, full glam and unbothered. Looks great honestly.
It looks like a thirst trap disguised as a charity event. All smiles and abs and way too much baby oil. The kind of photo people stare at too long and pretend they didn’t.
“Planning to hang that up somewhere special?” Aaron’s voice drifts by as he slides a fresh tray into the display case. “Locker? Pillowcase?”
I glare at him. “HA, HA, very funny.”
My voice comes out flat, but the warmth creeping up my neck gives me away.
He grins, unbothered. “Didn’t say it wasn’t.”
I grab the flyer and turn it over, even though the back’s blank. Like maybe flipping it hides the fact that I haven’t thrown it out yet.
“I’m not going,” I say, too casually. “Not my thing.”
Aaron shrugs and shuts the case. “Didn’t ask.”
“But you were thinking it.”
“I think a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I say ‘em out loud.” He wipes his hands on a towel, gives me a look that says you’re not fooling anyone, then walks off without another word.
I stay where I am, eyes drifting back to the glossy side of the flyer. Jules’s words echo louder now that he’s gone.
What’s the matter, Calder? Afraid of heat you can’t control?
Damn him.
He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t know what it’s like to be the one who keeps things steady. To carry the weight of normal so no one else has to. To build your life around predictability because unpredictability nearly broke you once.
Who stays behind while everyone else plays the hero. I run this shop. I pour the coffee. I keep the lights on and the chaos out. I’m the safe choice. Always have been.
And maybe part of me is fine with that. Maybe most days I need it to be true.
But then he walks in here, all heat and teasing and fire truck bravado, and suddenly safe doesn’t feel like enough.
I fold the flyer in half, then in half again.
The glossy paper resists a little, like it doesn’t want to disappear that easily.
Crease it sharply. The sound it makes—crisp and final—is too satisfying.
Like I’ve made a decision when I haven’t.
No reason to leave it out, and I’m not tossing it either. That would look too much like caring.
Instead, I pull open the drawer beneath the register and slip it in between inventory sheets and supplier invoices. Out of sight. Not gone.
Just… not right now.
Aaron passes by again and eyes the closed drawer. “You know it’s okay to want something. Oh and I pulled the scones out of the oven.”
I close my eyes because, shit! I forgot them… again! I don’t answer.
But I don’t deny it either.
The drawer clicks shut. A small sound, but it echoes louder than it should.
I don’t open it again. Just stand there for a beat too long, like maybe there’s something else I’m supposed to do with this moment.
The shop is quiet in that way it only gets after we close. Not just empty… but quiet.
No hum of conversation. No hiss from the steamer. No excuses not to think.
I move slowly as I wipe down the counters, like the longer it takes, the less alone I’ll be when it’s done. Which is stupid. It’s always just me at the end of the night.
Still, I scrub at a coffee ring that’s not really there and pretend I don’t feel him in the silence.
Jules.
The man walks in here with chaos in his smile and thinks he can just leave it behind when he goes.
He can’t.
He didn’t.
I shut the pastry case with more force than necessary, the metal tray clanging against the frame. The noise ricochets in the quiet like a warning bell. Like a reminder.
Of him.
That damn flyer is still in the drawer, tucked neatly between inventory orders and invoices, pretending it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. It’s meant something since the moment he walked in here like he wasn’t going to cause problems and already had.
I rake a hand through my hair and stare at the reflection in the glass. I look the same as I always do—black tee, tired eyes, the kind of posture that says don’t ask.
But inside?
It’s a mess.
I don’t get distracted. I don’t lose focus. I run a business. I have a routine. I don’t chase.
So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him?
It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just heat, just hands, just one moment behind a vendor booth when the whole world blurred and narrowed down to a man who looked at me like I was already undone.
No one looks at me like that.
I didn’t plan to want it again. Didn’t expect it to feel like anything.
But it does.
And now, every time he walks through that door, my balance shifts like something in me already started falling and never quite stopped.
I flip the CLOSED sign, the chain rattling softly against the glass, and move to kill the lights. My hand hovers over the switch.
Across the street, his building is dark.
I tell myself I’m not looking for him.
But my gaze lingers.
I remember the way he leaned on the counter earlier, casual like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t already gotten under my skin and set up camp.
Cocky firefighter charm. Flirty smile. Voice that lands low and sticks around.
What’s the matter, Calder? Afraid of heat you can’t control?
Goddamn him.
He doesn’t know what it’s like to keep a grip on everything just to stay upright. To keep everything in line because the second it slips, you’re done.
If I let go, who catches me?
Not him.
He’s a flame. A flash. A risk.
And I already know how risks end.
Still…
I shut off the last light and pause by the register. The drawer’s closed tight, but the flyer is there. I feel it.
I don’t open it. Don’t need to.
Instead, I grab my jacket, shrug it on, and head for the door.
The lock clicks into place behind me, final and too loud in the stillness. The town feels hushed, blanketed in that early spring chill that hasn’t quite let go of winter.
But there’s a charge in the air that wasn’t here before. A buzz just under the surface.
Him.
I glance once across the street.
The window upstairs is dark. No movement. No sound. No reason to be standing here with my keys clutched like an anchor I don’t want to drop.
I exhale slowly and head down the sidewalk.
I don’t look back.
But the heat lingers anyway.
The Brew House opens at seven.
I’m here by six-thirty.
Not because I have to be, Aaron usually handles mornings just fine without me, but because I couldn’t sit still in my apartment one second longer. The walls felt too tight. The air is too quiet and my bed too warm.
Or maybe just empty.
I unlock the front door and step inside, the familiar scent of roasted beans and cinnamon hitting me like muscle memory. Everything smells the same. Looks the same. Feels… not the same.
I move through the morning routine like always—grind, prep, stock, check the bakery case—but my mind won’t stay still.
It keeps drifting. Back to the flyer. Back to him.
I’m in the middle of loading espresso cups when Aaron strolls in, looking way too smug for this early in the day.
“Morning,” he says, heading straight for the sink to wash his hands. “Sleep okay?”
“Fine,” I mutter, not looking up.
“Mmm.” He dries off, then leans against the counter, eyeing me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that’s missing one very obvious piece. “Any dreams?”
I pause. “Dreams?”
He grins. “You know, the kind with calendars and suspenders and suspicious amounts of body oil?”
I shoot him a glare, but it’s weak at best.
Aaron whistles low. “Damn. You usually deny it faster than that.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re rattled.”
He’s not wrong.
I set the last cup down and exhale through my nose, trying not to let it show. “What if I was?”
Aaron stills.
My voice is quiet now, too even to be a joke. “What if I was dreaming about him?”
A beat of silence stretches out, thick as steam.
Aaron doesn’t smirk this time. Just studies me for a second, like maybe he sees more than I meant to say.
Then he shrugs. “Then I’d say it’s about time.”
I look away, throat tight, something sharp catching behind my ribs.
He doesn’t push it. Just heads to the back to start a fresh batch of muffins, leaving me alone with my thoughts, and the soft hum of machines warming up.
I rest both hands on the counter, head bowed, breath shallow.
It’s not like I’ve never felt things before. I have. Once.
There was a guy. Back in Boston. Before this place, before I had roots. He was easy to talk to. Made me laugh. We tried. Briefly.
But it ended with him asking me why I always kept one foot out the door even when I said I was all in.
I didn’t have an answer.
Still don’t.
Only now, it feels like Jules is dragging the questions back out of me with nothing but a crooked smile and a little heat behind the eyes.
I don’t even know what this is, whatever’s happening between us. If it’s happening at all. Maybe it was just one time. One afternoon. One moment of being seen by someone who’s not afraid to look too close.
But maybe it’s not.
And that scares the hell out of me.
The bell over the door jingles as the first customer steps inside, and I straighten on instinct, slipping back into my role like it’s armor.
Like it’ll keep me from burning.
“Morning,” I say, forcing a smile as I take their order.
Behind me, the bakery timer dings. The smell of fresh scones rises in the air.
Everything resets.
Same steps. Same rhythm.
But it doesn’t feel the same.
Because I’m not.
I glance toward the drawer below the register—where that folded flyer still sits—and wonder if this is how it starts. Not with some grand declaration. Not with knowing what comes next.
Just with the quiet moment after the dream.
And the choice not to forget it.
I tell myself it’s harmless. Just a moment. Just a flyer in a drawer.
But moments don’t stick like this unless they mean something.
Unless part of me—somewhere under all the caution—is already unraveling.
I’ve been the same version of myself for so long, I stopped asking what else I could be.
And now he’s here. Blowing through like a summer storm.
Loud. Bright. Impossible to ignore.
But he lingers anyway.
In the scent of espresso. In the curve of a smirk I can’t stop seeing.
In the quiet corners of my mind I don’t let anyone into.
Not anymore.