Epilogue
EXTRA SHOT OF US
Wes
I should be stocking the muffins. I should be checking the grind on the espresso. Instead, I’m standing in the doorway of the small back office, my arms crossed, watching the man sprawled across my leather couch.
Jules is half-naked again. It’s becoming a tradition, one I’m not even pretending to complain about anymore.
He’s wearing his navy work pants, unbuttoned at the waist, but his shirt is discarded on the floor like a casualty of war.
He looks like a beautiful disaster—dark hair a mess from the pillows, skin flushed from sleep, one arm flung over his eyes to block out the overhead light I’d just flicked on.
I watch him for too long. I know I am. A year ago, this sight would have made me check the locks, wondering when the clock would run out on having him here.
I would have been calculating the minutes until he had to leave.
Now, it just makes my blood run hot with a steady, quiet possessiveness.
He isn't a guest anymore. He’s the permanent fixture I never knew I needed, the one who turned my sanctuary into a home.
He shifts, his arm dropping, and one dark eye cracks open. He catches me staring, and instead of the usual morning grogginess, a slow, devastatingly smug grin spreads across his face.
You’re hovering, Captain, he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that I feel in my own marrow.
I’m supervising, I correct him, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. I step back, my hand finding the heavy brass lock on the office door. I don't hesitate. I twist it, the click echoing sharply in the quiet shop.
The shop opens in fifteen minutes, Wes, Jules says, though he doesn't look even remotely concerned. He sits up, the muscles of his chest and stomach rippling in the dim light, his skin mapping the history of every fire he’s fought and every night he’s spent in this bed.
Five minutes, I say, my voice dropping an octave as I walk toward him, the distance between us feeling like a live wire. They can wait five minutes.
Jules
I’m barely awake, but the sound of that lock turning is better than any double-shot of espresso Wes could ever pull.
I watch him approach—my grumpy, stoic coffee man, looking at me like he’s finally decided to stop being a witness and start being a participant.
He looks different lately. He looks like he’s finally stopped waiting for the world to end.
I stay on the couch, leaning back on my elbows, letting him take in the view.
I know exactly what I’m doing. I like the way his eyes darken when I’m being difficult.
I like the way his jaw tightens when I tease him, that little muscle jumping in his cheek that tells me he’s seconds away from losing that legendary composure.
You’re going to be late for the morning rush, I whisper as he stops between my knees.
I reach up, my fingers dragging over the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him just an inch closer until the heat of him is a physical pressure.
What will the neighbors think, Wes? The Fire Captain and the Shop Owner, locked in a back office while the town waits for their caffeine?
Mrs. Higgins is probably already idling in the lot.
Let them think whatever they want, Wes mutters. He doesn't pull away. He reaches down, his hands sliding into my hair, his grip firm and possessive. I’m not the one who left his shirt in the middle of the floor. You’re the one who’s out of uniform, Captain.
I did that on purpose, I grin, looking up at him through my lashes. I thought you liked the decor. It’s an 'extra shot' of me. Isn't that what the customers want?
I get filthy on purpose then, leaning in to whisper a promise against his jaw—a specific, low-voiced suggestion that I know will break his last shred of professional composure.
I tell him exactly what I want him to do to me on that desk before the bell above the door starts chiming.
I’m not being fragile today. I’m not asking for permission or looking for an exit sign.
I’m claiming every second of his time, every inch of his focus.
You’re a menace, Jules, he gasps, his hands moving lower, his touch needy and confident all at once.
I’m your menace, I remind him, wrapping my legs around his waist and pulling him down until the world outside the office door—the station, the shop, the gossip—completely disappears.
Wes
The hookup is quick, fueled by a year of repressed tension and the absolute certainty that he’s not going anywhere.
It’s loud, it’s unhurried in its intensity, and it’s filled with the kind of confidence we didn't have when we were still afraid of the "impact.
" There’s no more doubt in the way I touch him, no more hesitation in the way he takes it.
We aren't two people trying to survive each other anymore; we’re just two men who have finally found where they belong.
When it’s over, I don’t roll away. I don’t check the clock or start the mental tally of the day's tasks.
I stay right there, holding him against me on the narrow couch, my face buried in the crook of his neck as our breathing syncs up.
The scent of him—soap, skin, and the faint hint of the coffee drifting under the door—is the only thing that matters.
A sharp, rhythmic knock sounds at the front door of the shop. Then the muffled sound of the bell being shaken, followed by the heavy thud of a delivery truck pulling into the alley.
Wes? Jules whispers, his breath warm against my ear, his hand tracing the line of my spine. Someone’s here. I think I hear Mrs. Higgins’s cane hitting the pavement.
I don't move. I don't let go. I tighten my grip, my fingers splayed across his back, feeling the steady, permanent thud of his heart against mine. I can hear the muffled voice of the town outside, the start of the daily grind, the noise that used to make me want to hide.
I don't care. Let the town gossip. Let the Chief send another text about the "scene" at the park. I have everything I need right here in this quiet, cluttered office.
Wes, Jules chuckles, a low, resonant sound in his chest. The coffee. The customers. They're waiting. You’re going to have a riot on your hands if you don't open those doors.
I lift my head just enough to look at him, my thumb brushing over his bottom lip, tasting the heat of him still lingering on my tongue. I look at the man who chose to stay, the one who turned a transfer into a lifetime.
Guess they’ll have to wait, I say, my voice final and thick with a new kind of certainty. I’m not done tasting mine yet.