Chapter 5
Boone
My alarm hasn’t even buzzed when my eyes crack open. Habit. Muscle memory. Or maybe just my bladder yelling at me.
I groan, swing my legs off the bed, and pad barefoot to the bathroom. Cold tiles. Early light. Silence.
Coffee first.
I brew a strong cup, splash in oat milk, and take the first scalding sip while stretching one arm over my head, then the other. My body’s still sore from drills yesterday, but nothing a good run won’t fix.
After dressing—track pants, old department hoodie, sneakers with one frayed lace—I head out the door and jog downstairs to Gabe’s unit.
The man sleeps like a goddamn corpse.
I knock.
Nothing.
I knock again.
Still nothing.
“Rise and shine, asshole,” I call through the door. “Five miles. Let’s go.”
From inside: “Fuck off.”
I grin. “Love you too, sunshine.”
I leave him to whatever grumpy fire captain dreams he’s having and head out. Naturally, Shepard’s already outside, unlocking the lobby doors.
“Morning,” he says.
“Coffee’s kicking in,” I reply.
“I was gonna make bacon. I’ll leave it in the microwave if you want some later.”
“You’re a saint, man.”
We walk a bit, shoes crunching on damp pavement. Air’s still cool, sky just starting to brighten.
“That steak last night,” I say. “Grill might’ve been a solid choice after all.”
“Don’t let Gabe hear you or he’ll be encouraged to get even more stuff he definitely doesn’t need.”
I laugh, sip again, then clear my throat. “Hey. Yesterday, when I brought up Camilla. I wasn’t trying to be a dick.”
Shepard slows a step. “I know.”
“I mean it. You know how I am.”
“I know,” he repeats. “It’s okay.”
And it is. He claps me on the shoulder and keeps walking.
I start running.
Headphones in. Legs finding rhythm. It’s still quiet out. Just me and the beat and the sound of my breath.
I flirt with a few regulars—Darla on Sycamore, always walking her Yorkie, that older guy with the retro headband who tries to keep up and never can.
Thirty minutes in, I’ve hit the beach loop and started the incline back toward town. Forty-five, I’m skimming my stats on Strava.
Five-point-four miles. Heart rate’s solid.
Not bad for a Tuesday.
I turn toward the bakery, already craving something warm.
And then—bam.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
I slam into someone at the door.
“Shit, sorry,” I say, catching the figure before she falls. A cup of cocoa—or maybe coffee—slips from her hand and explodes against my sneakers and her boots.
Hot liquid. Sticky. Smells like chocolate.
She stares at me, startled as hell.
“Shit, sorry,” I repeat. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you—”
“I’m fine.” She straightens up. Wipes at her jacket. Her boots are a mess.
She’s small, barely to my chest. Long blond hair with streaks of pink. And her eyes…
Stormy. Gray-blue, wild like a sea before lightning hits.
Sweetgrass and sugar. That’s what she smells like. Sweet and earthy. Like summer at twilight.
This must be her. The girl they were talking about.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Sadie, right?”
She blinks. “How do you know my name?”
I open my mouth.
She holds up a hand. “Never mind. Small town.”
She steps back, hoisting a massive tote onto her shoulder. I want to offer to buy her another cup, but the way she moves screams leave me alone.
“I can replace that,” I offer anyway, nodding at the cocoa puddle.
“Don’t bother.”
And just like that, she’s gone. Marches back to her truck, boots squelching, slams the door, and drives off.
Nice one, Boone.
I walk into Cora’s Bakery feeling like a jerk. A bell jingles as I enter.
Cora glances up from the counter. “What happened to you?”
“Had a run-in. Cocoa casualty.”
She glances at my shoes. “Yikes. That’ll stain.”
“I’ll mop it up.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve got it.” She’s already moving around with a rag.
I order my usual, then pause. “What’d she get?”
Cora lifts a brow.
“The girl. Pink hair. Sadie.”
“Oh.” She smiles conspiratorially. “She’s quiet. Bit prickly, maybe, but sweet. I doubt you’re why she was grumpy, darling. Don’t take it personal.”
“Still. What’d she order?”
“Cocoa. Cherry scone.”
I nod. “Give me the same. I’ll bring it to her if I see her again.”
Cora’s already packing it into a box. “On the house.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I insist. Consider it a town welcome to her, from me.”
I take it, nod in thanks, and lean against the counter.
“How are the husbands?” I ask. “Julian still obsessed with your sourdough?”
Cora laughs. “Always. Elias has been on a pickling kick lately. My fridge is 80% jars. And Ronan installed a new spice rack last week.”
“Must be nice.”
“It is,” she says, not bragging, just honest.
I sip my drink as I leave. Still warm. Still good.
Maybe if I see her again, she’ll let me explain. Not that I’ve got much to explain. I was just clumsy and big and in her way.
But she looked like she’d had a bad day already. Or a bad year.
I know that look. Sometimes, I still see it in the mirror.
Back at the apartment, I head straight for the microwave. Sure enough, Shepard’s left bacon covered in a paper towel like a damn angel. I reheat it, finish my drink, and think about whether or not I’ll run into Sadie again.
If I do, I’ll try not to be a jackass this time.
Ishower fast. Not because I’m in a rush—habit, mostly. The firehouse drilled the urgency into me, and paramedic life kept it there. A four-minute rinse, a towel drag over my hair, and I’m already in my clean navy uniform, badge clipped, boots tight, and backpack slung over one shoulder.
Let’s do this.
The engine hums as I back out of the parking lot behind our shared apartment complex. Gabe’s truck is still parked out front, which means he’s either sleeping in or still brooding about the girl with the pink hair.
Can’t blame him. She looked like the kind of woman you don’t forget, even if you want to.
Sadie.
She didn’t give me much to work with this morning. Just a startled glance, a stained pair of shoes, and a brush-off that stung more than it should’ve.
Whatever. People have bad mornings. Hell, I’ve had whole bad years.
I pull up to the emergency services building. It’s tucked behind city hall, a squat brick structure that smells like stale coffee and disinfectant.
The ambulance bay is empty for now. My partner, Charlie, is already inside, halfway through a glazed donut and pretending to read a training manual.
“Morning,” he says, licking sugar off his thumb.
“Hey.” I nod, dropping my bag in the corner. “You already finish inventory?”
He shrugs. “Mostly. Still gotta stock the trauma kit and check the defib. Want it?”
I grin. “You always give me the fun jobs.”
He flips me off and heads for the coffeemaker.
Stocking’s routine—gloves, gauze, Narcan, airway tubes.
I know every shelf in that ambulance by muscle memory.
Charlie hums along to some old soul song crackling through the intercom.
Outside, the rain’s finally dried up, but the skies still wear that washed-out look that feels more November than spring.
By noon, I’ve reloaded every bin, double-checked oxygen levels, and run diagnostics on the monitor. Charlie’s already slacking off in the break room. He mouths the word “lunch” like it’s a prayer.
I nod and grab my wallet.
Downtown’s quiet this time of day. Some of the shops close for an hour around lunch. Bakery’s always open, though. That woman, Cora, works like she’s got bees in her blood. Sugar Haven’s warm and smells like heaven, but I’m not headed there.
No. Because, I see her.
Sadie.
She’s sitting on a bench across from the library, right under that crooked old oak tree with the bark peeling off in flakes. Her legs are folded up, long black dress falling around her like smoke.
She’s sketching, focused, her pink-streaked hair tied up in a loose ponytail. Her boots are scuffed. Her jaw’s tight.
Approach slow, Boone. Don’t spook her again.
I cross the street, each step careful, not wanting to come off like some overeager puppy. I’m in uniform still, badge and all.
She looks up just as I reach her, and the second our eyes meet, she snaps the sketchbook shut.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone easy. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“You didn’t,” she replies. Her voice is dry, like gravel sifted through silk. “You were stomping.”
I grin despite myself. “That bad?”
She gives me a half-look, then glances down at my shirt. “So… paramedic?”
“Yeah. Boone, by the way.” I shift my weight, thumbs hooking into my belt. “I just wanted to say sorry again. About this morning. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Sadie shrugs. “It’s fine.”
“I picked up your order,” I add quickly. “The cocoa and the scone. But my boss is an animal and inhaled both.”
One side of her mouth twitches. “That’s alright.”
There’s something in the way she looks at me. Like she’s cataloguing me, not for threat level, but for… usefulness. I don’t mind it. But I’m aware she’s ready to bolt any second.
“You met Shepard, right?” I continue. “In the library? And Gabe, I guess.”
“Gabe,” she echoes. Her face shifts. Recognition? Surprise?
What’s that about?
“Yeah, we’re packmates,” I offer. “Kind of family, actually.”
Sadie’s eyes narrow slightly. “Cool.”
She’s closed off again. I can feel it, the way her body pulls in on itself, chin tilting up, shoulders going rigid.
I glance at the nearly empty can of Diet Coke on the bench beside her.
“Let me get you lunch?” I offer. “My treat. I feel bad.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but I shake the can lightly.
“Come on. I owe you one.”
A pause.
Then she nods. Barely.
I take that as a win.
The restaurant around the corner is small—more of a diner, really—but the food’s solid. I order two sandwiches and bring them back in a brown paper bag, warm with grease.
Please still be here, I pray.
She is. Thank fuck.
I hand her the bag and sit on the opposite side of the bench.
Our hands brush. It’s nothing, a second of skin on skin. But damn.
She smells freaking fantastic.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, digging into the bag.
“No problem.”
I let her eat in peace. Watch the way her fingers move. Her nails are short, smudged faintly with charcoal. Her boots are beat up, and her dress looks expensive but lived-in. She’s not from here. That much is obvious.
“So,” I say finally, “how’s the mural planning going?”
She swallows, then nods. “It’s fine. Still figuring out what I want each wall to say.”
“That makes sense.”
A beat.
She looks at me again. Really looks. “Why are you being nice to me?”
I blink. “What?”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I—” I pause.
How the hell do I answer that?
“Because I want to,” I say finally. “Because you’re new in town and I figured you wouldn’t hate a friendly face.”
Her shoulders loosen slightly. She looks away, then back at me. “Well. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I stand. “I should get back. Duty calls.”
She nods.
But as I walk away, I swear I feel her eyes on my back. Watching. Measuring.
She’s pretty, I think. But more than that—she’s hurting. And I get it.
I just hope she at least has someone to talk to… before that pain eats her alive.