Chapter Seven
REAL-WORLD COMPLICATIONS
Wes
I wake up to a ceiling I don’t recognize.
For half a second, my body forgets I’m not home. My brain searches for the usual like clockwork: the cold floor of my apartment, the walk downstairs to The Brew House, the sound of the espresso machine warming up before Aaron can start his morning monologue.
Then I shift, and the reality of last night snaps into place so fast it makes my throat close.
An arm is draped over my waist—heavy, warm, and possessive.
Jules is behind me, pressed against my back like he belongs there.
His place smells like clean soap and that citrus shampoo he uses, like he lives his life in bright colors and doesn't know how to be anything else.
The blinds are cracked, and early morning light slips in thin, clinical stripes across the bed.
It’s too quiet.
I should get up. I should put distance between us before my head catches up with what my body has already decided. I’m a creature of distance; I know how to exit a room before the air gets too thick to breathe. But I don’t move.
Jules shifts, his nose brushing my shoulder, and his hand slides from my waist to my stomach, a lazy, grounding weight. He’s checking to see if I’m still here. He mumbles something into my skin—half-asleep, not even trying to be the charming firefighter the town loves.
“Coffee,” he says, his voice a thick, gravelly rasp. “You make it.”
I stare at the wall, my pulse thrumming where his chest meets my spine. “No.”
His hand tightens—not enough to hurt, just a silent, sleepy warning. “Yes.”
“I’m not making coffee in your house, Jules.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a groan. “Then we’ll both suffer. And you're a coffee snob. You can't handle the suffering.”
I exhale through my nose, trying to ignore how good the heat of him feels. “You’re dramatic.”
“Sunshine,” he murmurs, and I can hear the smirk in his voice even with his eyes closed. “You’re the one who showed up at my door like you were possessed. The least you can do is caffeinate your victim.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t answer, because if I do, I’m going to admit things I’m not ready to say out loud. Things about why I actually showed up. Things about how the silence in my own apartment had started to sound like a countdown.
Jules kisses my shoulder. It’s soft. Barely there. A sleepy little press of lips that shouldn’t mean anything, but it hits me like a physical blow. It feels like a promise, and promises are just debt you haven't paid yet.
I push myself up before the gravity of the bed can pull me back down. The sheets slide down my hips, the cool morning air hitting my skin like a wake-up call. Jules’s eyes flick open the second the warmth leaves him. He doesn’t sit up. He doesn't reach for me. He just watches.
He’s not smug or cocky. He’s just... quiet.
“Running?” he asks.
I hate how careful he sounds. I hate that he already has a word for what I do.
“I’m making coffee,” I say, my voice flat as I reach for my jeans on the floor.
Jules’s brow lifts. “In my kitchen?”
“I said what I said.”
He smiles, slow and genuine. “Okay.”
I don't look at him while I dress. I don't look at him when I find my hoodie and shove my arms through it. I don't look at him because if I do, I’ll see that look in his eye—the one that says he’s starting to see past the tape I’ve used to seal myself shut—and then I’ll have to deal with it.
I head to his kitchen. It’s small, annoyingly homey, and full of the evidence of a life lived. There’s a calendar on the fridge, a bowl of fruit on the counter, and a mug tree with mismatched ceramics. It’s a place where someone actually stays.
I find a bag of coffee in the cabinet and pause. It isn't Brew House coffee. It smells... fine. It’s the kind of coffee that gets the job done but doesn't change your life. I start the pot anyway, the machine wheezing as it works.
Behind me, Jules pads in barefoot. He’s shirtless, his hair is a disaster, and he’s scratching his stomach like he hasn't a worry in the world. He leans against the doorway and watches me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen in a kitchen.
“You look like you want to fight that coffee maker,” he says.
“It’s cheap.”
“So are you,” he retorts, then grins when I shoot him a look. “Kidding. Mostly.”
I turn back to the counter, my hands braced on the edge of the laminate. My shoulders are tight. My chest feels too full, like I’ve swallowed a stone and it’s settling in my gut. The coffee drips. It’s a slow, rhythmic sound that should be steadying, but it just feels like time ticking away.
Jules comes up behind me. He doesn't touch me, but he’s close enough that the heat of him hits my back. His presence is heavy, pressing in on the air around me.
“Last night,” he starts.
“Don’t,” I cut him off.
The silence that follows is thick. The coffee gurgles like it’s laughing at me. Jules doesn't argue. He doesn't push. He just nods once, as if he heard the panic vibrating under my skin and decided not to poke at it.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Not yet.”
I hate that, too. I hate that he can just stop. That he can be kind without making it feel like a favor I owe him.
The pot finishes. I pour two mugs and Jules reaches around me to grab one. His fingers brush mine, and my body reacts like a traitor. He takes a sip and makes a face. “That’s... not great.”
I snort. “Not as good as the Brew House.”
He looks at me over the rim of the mug, his gaze intense. “Nothing’s as good as your coffee, Wes.”
It’s meant to be a compliment, but it lands like a hook. Compliments feel like expectations, and expectations feel like the beginning of a disappointment. I take a sip of the mediocre brew and swallow hard. “It’ll do.”
“Look at you,” he hums. “So inspiring.”
I should smile. I should give him something—a joke, a look, a reason to think this morning isn't the start of a withdrawal. Instead, I set my mug down and reach for my keys on the counter.
Jules’s gaze sharpens. “You’re leaving.”
“I have to open. Aaron’s there, but I need to be on-site.”
“You’ve got fifteen minutes before you actually need to be there.” He steps closer, his fingers finally brushing my wrist. He’s not stopping me, he’s just anchoring me. “Wes. You don’t have to sprint.”
My throat tightens. I pull my hand back, but I don’t yank it. “I’m not sprinting.”
Jules watches me for a long second, searching for the lie. He finds it, but he gives me a single, resigned nod. “Okay. Go.”
That’s worse than an argument. It feels like he’s letting me go on purpose, like he’s giving me enough rope to either tie myself down or hang myself with. I open the door and hesitate, my hand white-knuckled on the knob.
“You’ll text me?” he asks.
I don’t turn around. If I do, I’ll answer him with a look I can't afford to give. So I just walk out.
The walk from Jules’s place to the shop is colder than it should be. The air is crisp, but it doesn't clear my head. My chest feels full of something sharp and hot I can't name. I tell myself it’s just the coffee. I tell myself it’s just the lack of sleep.
I’m a liar.
The Brew House smells like cinnamon and control. Usually, the scent acts like a sedative, but today it feels like a cage. Aaron’s already behind the counter, apron on and his Dancers and Prancers hat pulled low like he’s late for rehearsal instead of an opening shift.
“You look like you got hit by a sleigh,” he says, not even looking up from the pastry case.
I toss my keys into the wooden bowl. “Morning, Aaron.”
He squints at me. “That’s not a denial. That’s an 'I didn't sleep in my own bed' voice.”
I glare at him until he lifts his hands. “Okay, okay. Grumpy is grumping. I’ll shut up.”
I move behind the counter, falling into the prep work. Grind. Tamp. Pull. I check the pastry display, adjusting a tray of scones by half an inch because the lack of symmetry is the only thing I can control right now.
Around ten, the lull hits. I’m wiping down the espresso bar when the bell chimes. It’s a woman I recognize—a regular who lives near the fire station. She waves at Aaron, then leans against the counter. “Morning! Is the new firefighter coming in today?”
Aaron shrugs. “Jules? Probably. He loves the ‘coffee’ here.’ Why?”
She leans in, lowering her voice. “I heard he might not be sticking around long. Temporary assignment, or something? My cousin who works at the town hall says he heard something about a six-month rotation thing. Maybe less.”
My hand stills on the steam wand. The metal is hot, but I don’t feel it.
Six months. Maybe less.
Six months isn’t long enough to build a routine. It’s barely long enough to break one. My brain does the math without asking me. Winter into spring. A handful of holidays. Six months is enough time to get used to someone. It’s not, however, enough time to survive them leaving.
I wipe down the already clean counter harder than necessary. Jules has a favorite mug. It’s the dark green one with the chipped rim. I’ve already started grabbing it automatically when I see him walk in.
I didn’t notice when that started. And that’s the problem, he’s already in my routine. Already in the quiet spaces between orders.
Temporary. The word feels like a countdown.
Aaron laughs it off. “This town makes up rumors for sport, Sarah. Don’t believe everything you hear.”
She shrugs. “Just saying. He’s cute, but don’t get attached. He seems like the drifter type. You can see it in the way he walks.”
She says it lightly. Like she’s talking about the weather. Like she didn't just drop a bomb in the middle of my coffee shop. I don't realize I've tightened my grip until the steam wand screeches. Aaron glances at me. “You good, Wes?”
“Fine.”
Last night flashes through my head. The way he held me. The way he said “I’m here.” He didn't say “I’m staying.” He said “I’m here.” There’s a world of difference. Why would a guy like Jules—someone who lives in high-definition—stay in a town that’s mostly grayscale?