Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Jordan
Nonna’s Coffee sits just outside the Zone’s main gate, a cozy little place with mismatched chairs and the kind of worn wooden tables that suggest it’s been here since before the Zone existed. I arrive five minutes early—a lawyer’s habit—and claim a corner table where I can watch the door.
I’ve changed clothes three times this morning, which is ridiculous. It’s coffee, not a marriage proposal. But somehow I can’t shake the feeling that this matters in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine consumption.
Then Forge steps through the door, and my breath catches.
Broad shoulders fill the doorway, shrinking the room around him.
The sight jolts me harder than any espresso shot ever could.
Outside the chaos of the firehouse mixer, he’s even more imposing—yet the way his gaze sweeps the room, careful and almost shy, reminds me of the gentle soul I glimpsed last night.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, approaching the table. “There was a small emergency at the station.”
“Actually, you’re right on time. Hope it was nothing serious.”
“Cat stuck in a tree. Miss Whiskers decided to explore the old oak in the community garden.” His mouth quirks upward. “Turns out cats are much better at climbing up than coming down. She voiced her opinion of my rescue technique by trying to shred my jacket—left three new ventilation slits.”
A smile tugs at my mouth as I picture this large, serious orc coaxing a cranky cat out of a tree. “Maybe she just wanted a souvenir.”
Hard not to sympathize. Who wouldn’t want to take a piece of him home?
His low chuckle rumbles across the table. “If shredded leather jackets count as souvenirs, I already have a collection.”
“At least you’re giving the local cats something to remember you by,” I tease. His smile deepens, and for the first time this morning, I forget to be nervous.
He eases into the chair across from me, his knees awkwardly angled under the too-small table. Then, with a small smile, he’s back on his feet.
“Coffee?” he asks, already standing. “I should warn you, their espresso is strong enough to wake the dead.”
“Perfect. I need all the caffeine I can get after staying up until two AM going over depositions.”
He glances over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “You went home after the mixer, which was around ten o’clock on a Friday and worked?” His tone isn’t judgmental—just that calm, steady kind of concern that somehow lands deeper than a scolding. “You ever let yourself rest?”
“Occupational hazard,” I say lightly, though my cheeks warm.
He returns a minute later, balancing two tiny espresso cups in hands that look more suited to axes than china, and somehow the sight is absurdly, unfairly sexy. I can’t stop picturing what else those hands could handle.
“Drink,” he says with quiet amusement as he sets one cup in front of me. “Before I start feeling guilty for enabling your workaholism.”
I laugh, the sound slipping out easier than I expect. “Guess we’ll both live with the guilt.”
When I take a sip, I immediately understand his warning. The coffee is indeed strong enough to restart my heart.
“Good?” he asks, watching my reaction with obvious amusement. The corner of his mouth tilts up, like he’s waiting for me to crack.
“It’s like drinking pure productivity,” I manage, setting down the cup carefully. “I may not sleep for a week.”
His eyes glint. “So if I buy you a second cup, I should expect a full legal brief on my desk by dinner?”
“Careful. I don’t draft briefs without a retainer agreement.”
“Fair,” he concedes with a grin, then gestures at my cup. “But you should know, the owner’s from Sicily. His grandmother’s recipe. He considers it a personal insult if you add sugar.”
I lift a brow. “So he’s basically the espresso mafia?”
Forge chuckles, low and warm. “Exactly. Order a latte here and you might not make it out alive.”
We settle into conversation easily, and I’m struck again by how comfortable this feels. No awkward silences, no need to fill every moment with chatter. Just two people getting to know each other over dangerously strong coffee.
“Tell me about the woodworking,” I say. “How did you get into it?”
His face lights up in a way that transforms his careful expression into something genuinely enthusiastic. “There was an elder who taught me—I called him Grandfather, though he wasn’t blood family.”
A serious expression clouds his face for a moment, then he banishes it and continues.
“Back home, before the Rift, he was considered a master craftsman. When he came through, he couldn’t bring his tools, but he brought his knowledge.
I was lucky enough to find him when I was a youth, before I drifted into trouble. ”
“That must have been difficult. Starting over with nothing.”
“It was. But he always said that skills live in your hands and your heart, not in your workshop.” Forge runs his thumb along the edge of his cup, and I notice the small scars and calluses that speak of years working with tools.
“He died about five years ago, but I still hear his voice every time I pick up a chisel.”
There’s something in his tone—love, loss, reverence—that makes my chest tighten. “He sounds like he was an amazing man.”
“He was. He would have liked you, I think.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, more to steady myself than anything, that simple praise landing somewhere I didn’t know was unguarded.
“You’re direct. He appreciated people who said what they meant.” Forge meets my eyes. “He also had a soft spot for anyone who could make him laugh, even when they were trying to be serious.”
“Are you saying I’m funny when I don’t mean to be?”
“I’m saying you have a way of looking at the world that’s both cynical and hopeful at the same time. It’s… refreshing.”
The observation catches me off guard. Most people see only the cynicism, the steel shell built from years of watching love die in depositions.
“I’m not sure about the hopeful part,” I say carefully.
“No? Then what changed? Why are you here?”
The direct question lands hard, but it deserves a direct answer. The silence stretches. I can almost hear the walls I’ve built around myself creaking under the strain.
Forge doesn’t rush to fill the gap. He leans forward slightly, muscular, tattooed forearms braced on the table, amber eyes steady on mine as if he’s willing to wait all day for the truth. That quiet patience unnerves me more than pressure ever could.
“A few things. Time. Riley. And last night. Being with you made me remember what it feels like to laugh and be listened to without someone wanting to fix me. I… think I might want to try again—carefully.
The words hang there, deliberate and terrifying. When did I make that decision? When did wanting this—him—stop being something I was avoiding and start being something I meant? The answer hums through me before I can second-guess it: this is what I want.
“My divorce was finalized eighteen months ago. My ex decided the problem was me being ‘too career-focused,’ like ambition and affection couldn’t share the same space.”
Forge’s expression doesn’t change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. “And you believed him?”
“Maybe. Work takes up most of my life. I’m driven, obsessive, the kind of person who cancels plans the second a case heats up.” My fingers worry the edge of my napkin, a nervous habit I thought I’d broken.
“But the thing is, he was having an affair the entire last year of our marriage. So maybe my focus on work was more of a symptom than a cause.”
“Or maybe,” Forge says quietly, “he was looking for an excuse to justify his own choices.”
The words hit with a clarity I can’t dodge. Not because it’s harsh, but because they name the truth I’ve been too afraid to face.
“Riley’s hinted at the same thing,” I admit. “But it’s hard to know what to believe when someone you trusted with your future turns out to be lying about everything.”
“That must have been devastating.”
There’s no judgment in his voice, no attempt to fix or minimize what I’ve been through. Just acknowledgment, and somehow that’s more comforting than all of Riley’s well-meaning reassurances.
“It was devastating. But you know what the worst part was? Not the betrayal, not even the divorce proceedings. It was realizing that I’d been so focused on trying to be the perfect wife and successful lawyer that I’d lost track of who I was as a person.”
“And who are you? As a person, I mean.”
The question should be simple, but it isn’t. For so many years, I’ve defined myself in relation to other people—wife, daughter, lawyer, friend. The idea of existing as just Jordan, separate from all those roles, is both terrifying and exhilarating.
“I’m still figuring that out,” I say honestly. “But I know she’s someone who can win a cooking contest with a gentle orc who makes furniture and rescues cats.”
His smile is slow and warm. “I like her already.”
“Even though she’s a cynical divorce lawyer who never cooks?”
“Especially because of that.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and I realize something has shifted. The careful walls I’ve spent eighteen months building around my heart have developed a crack, and instead of terrifying me, it feels like I can finally breathe properly.
“Your turn,” I say. “Tell me something real about you.”
He considers this, turning his tiny cup in slow circles on the table. “I’ve been on this crew for six months, and I still feel like I’m trying to prove I belong there.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the rookie. Because I’m still learning. Because some days I wonder if I’m good enough to do this job that’s come to mean everything to me.”
His honesty surprises me. Most men I know would never admit to professional insecurity, especially not on a first date.
“You seem pretty competent to me. You certainly knew what you were doing in that kitchen last night.”
“Cooking bacon is different from running into a burning building.”
“Is it? Both require staying calm under pressure, making quick decisions, and working as part of a team.” I lean forward slightly. “Plus, I saw how the other firefighters treat you. They don’t act like you’re just some rookie they’re stuck with. They treat you like family.”
Something shifts in his expression, like he’s seeing something from a new angle. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to see other people’s strengths than our own.”
“Speaking from experience?”
“Let’s just say I have a lot of practice.”
His phone buzzes, and he glances at it with a frown. “I’m sorry. It’s the station. I should—”
“Take it,” I say, already recognizing the look of someone whose job doesn’t respect normal hours.
He answers quickly, his expression growing serious as he listens. “How bad? Okay, I’ll be right there. I’m just across the street.”
He hangs up and looks at me apologetically. “There’s a fire at one of the apartment complexes. All hands.”
“Go,” I say, already standing. “People need you.”
“I’m really sorry about this—”
“Don’t be. This is what you do.” I pause, surprised by what I’m about to say. “Can I come with you? Not close to the fire,” I add quickly, seeing his expression. “But maybe I could wait somewhere nearby? See you in action?”
His expression tightens, a mix of surprise and something almost vulnerable. “You want to watch me work?”
“I want to see the man who stepped between me and the spattering grease without hesitating demonstrate why he deserves to be on that crew.”
His smile is brilliant and brief. “Let’s go.”