Chapter Eight The Quiet Burn
Chapter Eight
The Quiet Burn
A week off sounded good in theory.
But Reece Morgan didn’t do R and R. Not properly. And definitely not when his mind wouldn’t shut the hell up the second he sat still.
He’d tried. Honest. He’d taken the bike out along the coastal road, let the sea air batter him until his skin felt raw and his ears rang.
Visited his Nana. Read to her while she sat in the garden and stared blankly at the new assortment of flowers, hands trembling in her lap.
He’d plaited her thinning hair, fed her the tasteless, overcooked slop his brother’s hard-earned money barely stretched to cover.
Kissed her cheek. Then left before the ache in his chest swallowed him whole.
He’d then spent an entire day trying to fix the leaky radiator in the back room of the cottage, cursing through scraped knuckles and rusted bolts before admitting defeat and forking out for a plumber. Then he’d hit the gym at a ridiculous hour until his body threatened to down tools altogether.
He didn’t go near the sauna.
Didn’t even look at the door.
That was a line he wasn’t stepping over again.
Instead, he tried to kill time like a normal person.
Put the telly on, told himself it was background noise.
But somehow, he always landed on the same shows.
Bake Off , Great British Menu , anything with pastry and perfectly tempered chocolate.
Then he found himself in the kitchen at stupid o’clock, trying to recreate it all like some sad, flour-dusted cliché.
Thing was, he wasn’t bad at it. Decent cook.
Even better baker. If he ever brought someone back to his Nana-decorated house, complete with porcelain cats and knitted cushion covers, he’d cook them something proper.
An epic meal. Slow-cooked beef short ribs with red wine jus, maybe.
Sticky toffee pudding drowning in homemade butterscotch sauce.
The sort of food that made people stay the night.
Not that he’d had much cause to put that theory to the test. He’d only ever had two longish relationships who’d stepped foot through his Nana’s sacred green door. And despite his trying, neither had stayed for long.
So yeah. He cooked. He baked. And filled the space with good food and terrible coping mechanisms. And it had felt safer that way.
Until Trent Lawson walked into his life and, without even trying, set the whole bloody balance off-kilter, and now here he was, elbow-deep in flour, wishing he had someone to cook for.
Someone who’d sit at his kitchen table and steal icing off his fingers.
Someone who didn’t flinch at intimacy. Someone to hold all night .
Stupid. Bloody stupid.
In order to stop thinking about Trent bloody Lawson, Reece baked even more.
Then realised halfway through batch number five that he could’ve opened a bakery rivalling Seagulls .
Instead, he rummaged through the cupboard, found a stash of Tupperware boxes, and lined them with kitchen towel to pack each one with scones, shortbread, a batch of white chocolate brownies that he may or may not have dropped a bit of sea salt into by accident.
Then he shoved the lot into a fire service canvas tote lying in the back of his wardrobe since the community day last summer.
Not exactly Fortnum & Mason, but it’d do.
He then clipped the box onto the back of his bike, and before he could talk himself out of it, pulled on his hoodie and helmet and took off, out of the centre of Worthbridge and towards the suburbs.
The streets narrowed as he left the coastal stretch behind, the breeze off the water giving way to the quieter hum of garden suburb life.
The road curled past the old bakery with the faded window decals, and he eased past the turning for the school, roaring past the Co-op that still had half its signage missing after a windstorm last winter.
He then slowed at the familiar twist of Ash Tree Lane, where terraced houses gave way to small gardens, half-wild with daisies and trampoline nets.
Ben Miller’s place sat at the bend of the cul-de-sac, all red brick and crooked charm.
The garden was a chaos of wild herbs and half-won battles with dandelions.
Reece killed the engine and sat for a moment, resting his helmet over the handlebars.
The tote bag full of scones and poor coping mechanisms weighed down his arm as he finally swung off the bike and clumped up the short path in heavy boots .
He pressed the bell.
And realised he probably should’ve checked before turning up unannounced, because there were definitely kids behind that frosted PVC.
Thudding feet, high-pitched laughter, and someone absolutely massacring a recorder scale.
He was halfway to pretending he’d meant to post the scones through the letterbox when the door swung open.
Sophie filled the frame. Hair in a messy bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows, wearing the same dry smile she’d had the first time he met her at a crew barbecue. A honey-blonde knockout who somehow made chaos look cute. Miller had done well.
“Well, if it isn’t Worthbridge’s resident action hero.” She planted a hand on her hip. “You here to rescue me from fetching yet another thing for the wounded?”
“He milking it, is he?”
“Three kids, no pain relief, and I still did the laundry. But his broken arm? Debilitating.”
“You can’t blame a hero for trying.”
“Hmmm.” She stepped aside. “Then come in and do the legwork.”
“Lucky for you, today is leg day.” Reece held up the tote as he stepped inside. “I bring offerings. No promises on presentation, but they’re edible.”
“Edible’s enough.”
The warmth of the Miller house wrapped around him as he entered. Not heat, but life. Laughter echoed down the hall, sticky fingerprints dotted the banister, and toys scattered across the floor like landmines. Lived-in. Loud. Brimming with love.
It felt completely foreign.
Reece toed his boots off, suddenly aware that his socks didn’t match .
“Girls!” Sophie called towards the lounge. “We’ve got a guest. Behave or you don’t get one of his baked goodies!”
That sparked chaos. A tangle of limbs as three kids barrelled into the hallway. One had glitter stuck to her forehead, another wielded a plastic lightsabre, and the older one, who was far too cool for school, popped out her earbuds.
“Is this him?” the younger one asked, peering up at Reece with suspicious brown eyes. “The tattoo man?”
Reece looked at Sophie. “You’ve been talking about me?”
“Ben may have referred to you as the fire service’s answer to Thor when he came home a bit battered after one of your sparring session. To save face.”
Reece chuckled.
The taller kid then grabbed the tote bag. “Did you bring snacks?”
“Oi!” Reece snatched it back, before realising he was in a tug-of-war with a child. “That’s not for you, that’s for…okay, yeah, it’s for you. But not until your dad gets a look-in.”
“Ben’s lounging in the back garden. Through there.” Sophie pointed through the kitchen to the conservatory. “I was refusing him beer, but as you’re here…we got a sample box from the microbrewery. Fancy one?”
“Yeah, alright. One. I got the bike.”
Reece made his way through to the back, stepping outside into a garden that was part jungle, part obstacle course.
A trampoline sagged in the corner next to a plastic slide buried in the long grass, tomato plants clung to bamboo stakes near the fence, but it was Ben Miller who looked the worse for wear.
He sat lounged on a garden chair, arm in a sling, one leg propped up on a footstool with a half-defrosted bag of peas strapped to a swollen ankle, face blotched with healing scrapes, and a thin line of stitches tracing his temple where a falling beam had clipped him during the warehouse fire.
Faded bruises covered his face making him way more rugged than the man needed.
But even banged up, bruised, and stitched together, Ben had that same solid presence.
No roof caving in could knock him down for good.
“You look like shit,” Reece said, dumping the bag on the patio table.
“Good to see you too.” Ben held out his good hand for Reece to shake, then nodded towards the tote. “That the apology package?”
“You wish. I baked. Don’t read into it.” Reece handed him the bag before settling into the seat next to him.
“You baked?” Ben peered inside at the goods. “You? Morgan. Big, beefy, alpha Morgan. What’s in them? Protein powder and the tears of some heartbroken woman?”
“Lol.” Reece rolled his eyes. “They are normal sugar feasts that will make your kids go bonkers after eating them. You’re welcome.”
“And no tears of young, vulnerable damsels?”
“Not lately. This is all about too much flour and not enough self-restraint.”
“When did you ever have self-restraint?” Sophie called through the kitchen window. “We all remember what happened with Leanne from the nursery!”
Reece groaned. “That was two years ago .”
“She still flinches when she hears sirens!” Sophie shot back, laughing.
Ben smirked. “Didn’t she crochet you a scarf after one date? ”
“And tried to name her rescue cat after me.” Reece rolled his eyes.
“She was sweet!” Sophie said, appearing in the doorway with a tea towel over one shoulder. “But your type always ends in tears, carbs, or court-mandated distance.”
“Glad I came,” Reece deadpanned, clutching a hand to his chest. “Really feeling the love.”
“You’re here for the free painkillers and ego bruising.” Sophie pointed at him. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Ben chuckled, shaking his head. “Seriously though, this looks incredible. Are these lemon scones?”
“Maybe.” Reece shrugged. “Or they’re sugar-coated regret. Bit of both.”
Ben popped the lid off the container and breathed it in. “You know, if this firefighter gig doesn’t pan out, there’s a market for this. Sophie would hire you. She’s always looking for someone to make baked goods for the PTA.”
“Tell the PTA to go to hell.”