Chapter 9 Beau
Beau
The coffee routine had started accidentally and became essential without either of us acknowledging it out loud. My apparent inability to think of any other reason to be in Sable’s presence apart from bringing her coffee had somehow not backfired on me.
That first Monday, six weeks after she’d fixed the coffee machine at the station, I’d brought Sable coffee because I’d been at The Brew anyway. It seemed wasteful not to grab her one too, knowing she’d be at her desk by six-fifteen like clockwork.
She’d looked surprised when I showed up at her office door.
“Thought you might want this,” I’d said, setting it on her desk. “Oat milk, two sugars.”
“You remembered.” She’d said it like it was significant.
Like people didn’t usually remember the small details about her.
After the way she completely captivated me, it would have said a lot if I hadn’t remembered something as simple as how she took her coffee.
And it hurt to think that there had been people in her life at some point that made her even consider that this was something which could feasibly happen.
“Hard to forget when Silas texts reminders in the group chat about your dairy issues,” I said, instead of what I really wanted to say. Instead of acknowledging that she meant something and accepting anyone into her life who didn’t treat her like the gift she was would have been a mistake.
But that had made her smile, just a little. “Of course he does.”
I’d planned to leave right away. Drop off the coffee and get back to the station for the morning briefing. But then she’d asked if I had a minute, and somehow that minute turned into ten minutes of quiet conversation about the upcoming emergency drill schedule.
Ten minutes that made the nightmares from the night before feel more manageable.
The next day, I’d brought coffee again. Told myself it was just being neighborly. The third day, she was waiting for me, already at her desk, and the look on her face when I walked in with her coffee made something in my chest go warm.
By the end of the first week, it was a routine. By the end of the second week, it was essential.
Six weeks later, I couldn’t imagine starting my day any other way.
I woke up at five every morning, same as I had for three years. The nightmares made sleeping past dawn impossible, and I’d learned to work with my body’s rhythm instead of fighting it. Quick shower, dress in my station uniform, out the door by five-thirty.
The Brew opened at five-forty-five specifically to catch the early crowd of emergency services and construction workers.
Sarah was always there, usually with Jonah helping her prep for the day.
They’d give me knowing looks when I ordered two oat milk lattes instead of my usual black coffee, but they’d stopped commenting on it after the first week.
I was at Sable’s office by six every morning. She was always already there, tablet open, radio on, planning her day with the kind of focused intensity that made me understand why she was so good at her job.
“Morning,” I’d say, setting the coffee on her desk in the one clear space not covered with paperwork or emergency protocols.
“Morning, Beau.” She’d always look up, always smile just a little, always reach for the coffee like it was exactly what she needed.
We’d talk for ten minutes. Sometimes about work. Sometimes about nothing important. The weather. The new equipment the county was considering for emergency services. Whether the general store had finally gotten the good bread back in stock.
Small talk that felt significant because we were two people who didn’t do small talk with anyone else.
This morning, our seventh Wednesday of the coffee routine, something felt different.
Sable looked tired when I walked in. More tired than usual, with shadows under her eyes that suggested she hadn’t slept well. She reached for the coffee like a lifeline.
“You okay?” I asked, staying in the doorway instead of my usual position leaning against her filing cabinet.
“Fine. Long week.” She took a long drink of coffee, and I watched some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Thank you for this. I don’t say it enough, but it helps.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know. But I want to.” She set the cup down and looked at me, really looked at me. “Why are you doing this, Beau? And don’t say it’s efficient or convenient. I need the real answer.”
The honesty in her question deserved an honest answer, even if it scared me.
“Because you take your coffee with oat milk and two sugars, and you deserve to start your day with something that’s exactly right.
” I shifted my weight, uncomfortable with the vulnerability.
“And because I like the ten minutes we spend talking before our shifts start. Makes the nightmares worth it.”
I hadn’t meant to say that last part.
Sable went very still. “Nightmares?”
“Nothing important. Just old ghosts.” I moved toward the door, needing to escape before she asked questions I didn’t want to answer.
“Beau.” Her voice stopped me. “I get up at five every morning because if I don’t plan my entire day before six, I feel like I’m losing control. It’s not healthy. It’s probably not even functional. But it’s how I cope with being responsible for emergency services in three counties.”
The confession hung in the air between us, vulnerable and honest in a way that made my chest ache.
“I get up at five because if I don’t, the nightmares win,” I said, matching her honesty with my own. “Three years, and they haven’t gotten better. Just more familiar.”
“The rescue that went wrong.”
I nodded, surprised she’d remembered. I’d mentioned it once, briefly, during one of our early morning conversations. “Omega and her kid. Submerged vehicle. I was thirty seconds too slow.”
“That’s not the same as failing.”
“Feels the same.”
“I know.” And something in her voice said she really did know. That she carried her own guilt about things that weren’t entirely her fault.
We stood there in her office as dawn light started filtering through the windows, two people who’d built their entire lives around control and competence because the alternative was falling apart.
Two people who somehow made each other’s careful control feel less like survival and more like strength.
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked.
“Same time,” she agreed. “And Beau? Thank you. For the coffee and the routine and the ten minutes. It helps. It helps more than I can express.”
I left before I could do something stupid like tell her she was helping me too.
That the morning routine with her was the first thing I’d looked forward to in three years.
That knowing she’d be there, drinking coffee and planning her day, made waking up at five feel less like running from nightmares and more like running toward something worth having.
The rest of the day passed in the usual rhythm of station life. Equipment checks. Training drills. Maintenance on the engines. Captain Rhodes asked how I was doing with my “morning coffee friend” in a tone that suggested she knew exactly what was happening even if I didn’t want to acknowledge it.
“She’s good company,” I said, which was the truth without being the whole truth.
“Uh-huh. And that’s why you’ve been smiling more in the past six weeks than you have in the past three years.”
I didn’t have an answer for that.
That evening, I got a message in the group text from Silas.
Lunch with Sable tomorrow. She seems tired. Anyone know if she’s okay?
I thought about the shadows under her eyes this morning. The way she’d reached for the coffee like it was keeping her together.
My reply was honest. She looked exhausted this morning. Mentioned it’s been a long week.
Dane’s response came quickly. I’ll check in. Make sure she’s not overworking.
Silas typed back. Be subtle about it. She doesn’t like being told to take care of herself.
I smiled despite myself. We’d all learned that lesson independently. Sable was better at taking care of everyone else than she was at accepting care for herself.
My phone buzzed again, this time with a direct message from Dane instead of the group text.
Her car’s been having issues. I saw her checking the battery yesterday. I’m going to make sure she has a ride if it dies.
Just like Dane to notice things from a distance and have a plan before the problem even materialized. It should have been annoying. Instead, it was reassuring to know all three of us were watching out for her in our own ways.
I typed back. Good. Let me know if she needs anything.
The next morning, Thursday, Sable looked even more exhausted than she had Wednesday. But she was at her desk by six-fifteen, same as always, and she smiled when I walked in with coffee.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, taking the cup with both hands like it was precious.
“Bad night?”
“Didn’t sleep well. Too much on my mind.” She took a sip, then looked at me over the rim of her cup. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Do you ever feel like your body knows something your brain doesn’t want to accept?”
The question was strange enough that I actually thought about it instead of giving an automatic answer. “Sometimes. Usually, it means I’m avoiding something I need to face.”
She nodded slowly, like I’d confirmed something she’d been thinking. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not yet.” She set the coffee down and pulled up her schedule on her tablet, signaling the shift back to normal conversation. “But maybe soon.”
I didn’t push. Sable shared things in her own time, and pushing only made her retreat behind her walls.
We talked about the emergency drill scheduled for next week, about the new county protocols, and whether the autumn weather would hold through the weekend. Normal conversation that felt comfortable and essential and like the foundation of something neither of us was ready to name.