Chapter 8
Adam
I wake up smiling.
That's the first thing I notice—the unfamiliar pull of muscles in my face, the lightness in my chest. I can't remember the last time I woke up happy. Before the divorce, certainly. Maybe even before that.
Last night was perfect.
The Italian place, candlelight making June's eyes look impossibly blue.
Her laugh when I told her about my first day at the academy—how I'd gotten lost and ended up in a closet.
The way she leaned forward when she talked about opening The Sweet Spot, her whole face lit up with passion.
How her hand felt in mine across the table, small and warm and exactly right.
I'd walked her to her door. Kissed her goodnight—once, then twice, then several more times because I couldn't make myself stop. She'd been breathless and flushed, fingers twisted in my shirt, and every cell in my body screamed at me to ask if I could come inside.
But I'd forced myself to step back. Say goodnight properly.
I want to do this right. Take my time. I want June to know this isn't just physical—even though God knows the physical part is driving me insane.
Just thinking about her makes me hard. The memory of her pressed against me in her entryway, the soft sounds she made when I kissed her, the way her dress had ridden up slightly when I'd lifted her onto my kitchen counter the other night—
"Daddy!"
Emma's voice cuts through my increasingly inappropriate thoughts. I adjust myself under the covers and take a breath.
"Yeah, princess?"
"I'm making breakfast!"
That gets me moving. Emma plus unsupervised kitchen equals disaster.
I pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt and pad barefoot down the hallway.
The scene that greets me is exactly what I expect.
Emma standing on a chair at the counter, cereal box tipped over, milk pooled across the surface and dripping onto the floor.
She's holding a bowl triumphantly, apparently oblivious to the mess surrounding her.
"Morning, sunshine." I grab paper towels and start damage control. "Making breakfast?"
"I wanted to surprise you!" She beams at me, gap-toothed and proud. "You were smiling in your sleep. You never smile in your sleep."
The observation catches me completely off guard. Has she been watching me sleep? How long has she noticed I don't smile?
The thought makes my chest ache—all the ways the divorce has affected her that I don't even see.
"Just had good dreams," I say, keeping my voice light as I wipe up the milk.
"About June?"
I pause mid-wipe. My six-year-old is too damn perceptive. "Maybe."
Emma climbs down from the chair, completely serious. "I like June. She should be your girlfriend officially."
"I'm working on it, Em."
"Work faster, Daddy." She crosses her arms, looking exactly like Harper when she's being bossy.
I can't help it—I laugh. Actually laugh, the sound surprising even me. "Did you just give me dating advice?"
"Yes." She nods, very matter-of-fact. "June is pretty and nice and she makes good cookies. You should marry her."
"Whoa, slow down—"
My phone buzzes on the counter. June's name lights up the screen, and my heart does something ridiculous.
Good morning. Last night was perfect. Thank you.
I'm grinning like an idiot as I type back:
Good morning, beautiful. It was perfect. I'd like to do it again.
Her response is immediate:
Yes. I'd love to cook for you both sometime. Maybe dinner at your place Saturday?
The domesticity of it hits me square in the chest. June cooking for us. The three of us around a table like a family. Like something permanent and real and everything I didn't know I was allowed to want again.
I reply:
We'd love that.
"Who are you texting?" Emma tries to peek at my phone. "Is it June?"
"It is." I scoop her up, making her giggle. "And she wants to cook dinner for us Saturday night. What do you think?"
Emma's eyes go wide. "Really? Can I help her cook? Please please please?"
"I'm sure she'd love that, princess."
I type one more message with Emma bouncing in my arms:
Emma wants to help cook. Fair warning, she's enthusiastic but messy.
June's response makes me smile:
Perfect. We'll make it an adventure.
Emma's already planning the menu—cookies, cake, "maybe pizza but the fancy kind." I half-listen, still staring at my phone, at June's messages, at the evidence that last night wasn't a dream.
"Daddy, you're smiling again," Emma says, poking my cheek.
"Yeah, baby girl. I am."
She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes tight. "I'm glad you're happy again."
The word lands harder than it should. Again. Like she's been keeping track of all the months I wasn't. All the times I was just going through the motions—being Dad but not really being present.
I hold her tighter. "Me too, Em. Me too."
Today feels full of possibility. Like maybe—just maybe—we're building something real.
Something that could last.
***
By Wednesday, I'm at the station for my shift and I can't stop checking my phone like a damn teenager.
Every notification makes my heart jump, hoping it's June.
We've been texting constantly—good morning messages, random thoughts throughout the day, goodnight texts that stretch past midnight because neither of us wants to stop talking.
It's addicting. She's addicting.
"Lane's got a woman."
Kowalski's announcement echoes through the engine bay, and I look up to find half the crew watching me with shit-eating grins.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say—but I'm smiling, which completely undermines my denial.
"It's the bakery girl, isn't it?" Captain Torres leans against Engine 2, arms crossed, looking far too amused. "The one who brought those incredible cupcakes to the block party?"
"June," I correct automatically. "Her name's June."
The crew erupts in hoots and wolf-whistles. I flip them off, but there's no heat in it.
"When do we get to meet her officially?" Kowalski pulls himself out from under the truck, wiping his hands on a rag. "Because Lane won't shut up about her."
"I don't talk about her that much—"
"You mentioned her three times this morning," Jenkins interrupts. "Before eight a.m."
"Twice," I correct.
"Three," Torres says, grinning. "You told me she texted you good morning, showed Kowalski a picture of her cookies, and asked Jenkins where a good second date spot was."
Okay. So maybe I've been talking about her.
An idea starts forming—the kind that's either brilliant or completely insane. "We're doing the Firehouse Heroes breakfast Sunday, right?"
Torres nods. "Nine to two. Community outreach. Why?"
"Emma's been wanting June to see the station. She keeps talking about showing her the trucks." I'm already pulling out my phone. "What if I invite her? She could bring some baked goods, the kids would love it—"
"And you get to show off your girl to the crew," Kowalski finishes, grinning. "I vote yes."
"It's not a democracy, Kowalski," Torres says—but he's smiling. "Invite her. We could use the good PR, and if she brings donuts, you're golden. Just don't make out with her in front of the kids."
"I'm not going to—" I stop, because everyone's laughing. "You're all assholes."
"Yeah, but we're your assholes," Jenkins says cheerfully.
I'm already typing:
Emma wants to know if you'll come to the Firehouse Heroes breakfast Sunday. Community event at the station—local kids tour the trucks, learn fire safety. She's very persistent about you seeing where I work.
The response comes while I'm staring at the screen:
How can I say no to Emma? What should I bring?
My heart does that stupid flutter thing again, as I text back:
Just yourself. But if you happened to bring donuts, you'd be everyone's hero.
June:
I think I can manage that. What time?
Me:
Nine a.m. Runs until one, but you don't have to stay the whole time.
June:
I'll be there. And Adam, I'm excited to see your world.
I read that line three times, something tightening in my chest that I'm not ready to name yet. The fact that she wants to be part of this—my work, my crew, this whole messy complicated life I'm building with Emma—means everything.
"She coming?" Torres asks.
"Yeah."
"Good." He claps me on the shoulder. "Now get back to work before I write you up for excessive phone usage and general lovesick behavior."
The crew laughs, but it's good-natured. They're happy for me—I can feel it.
And as I pocket my phone and get back to work, I realize I'm happy too.
For the first time in a long time, genuinely, impossibly happy.
***
Mid-morning, my phone rings. Not a text—an actual call. I glance at the screen and my stomach drops.
Sarah.
She only calls about Emma. Usually with complaints—I'm not doing something right, Emma mentioned something Sarah doesn't approve of, some criticism wrapped in fake concern. Every conversation leaves me tense and second-guessing myself for days.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but that'll only make it worse. Delayed confrontation is still confrontation.
I step outside into the bay, away from the crew. "Sarah. Everything okay?"
"Adam." Her voice is clipped, professional—the tone she uses when she's gearing up for something. "We need to talk. About Emma. And about you... dating."
Ice floods my veins. "How do you know about—"
"I have my sources." Satisfaction bleeds through her voice, like she's caught me doing something wrong. "Tyler Owen reached out. We went to college together, actually. He mentioned you're seeing someone. June Callahan?"
Tyler. That fucking weasel.
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack.
"What I do in my personal life isn't your concern," I say carefully, keeping my voice level even as fury builds in my chest.
"It is when it affects our daughter." Her tone shifts to that false sweetness that used to make me think she cared. Now I know better. "Emma mentioned June when I talked to her last week. Said you're together a lot. Don't you think it's too soon to be introducing Emma to someone new?"