Chapter 32 Liam
Morrison's filing system was a disaster.
I'd been at this for three hours, shoulder aching despite the sling, trying to make sense of the previous captain's idea of organization. Receipts mixed with incident reports, training schedules shoved between vacation requests… It was mindless work, though, which was exactly what I needed. Anything to stop replaying Wednesday’s coffee shop conversation on a loop.
"That's all I can give you right now. That's it. That's all I have."
Three days later and her words still sat like stones in my chest. But what had I expected? That she'd forgive me? That one apology would undo everything? No, I knew that wouldn’t happen, and that hadn’t been what I’d been looking for.
I pulled open another drawer. More chaos. My shoulder protested and I shifted position, ignoring the pain. Physical therapy could wait. Sitting in my empty apartment with nothing but my thoughts was worse than any injury.
At least Piper had listened. At least she'd shown up, which was more than I deserved.
Take care of yourself, Piper.
Christ. The way she'd looked at me when I said her name. Like it hurt her to hear it.
I forced myself to focus on the mess in front of me. A half-eaten protein bar—Jesus, Morrison—three years of Christmas cards, and finally, a folder labeled "Community Events."
The contract I’d been looking for, the one for the Firefighter’s Charity Breakfast, was on top. I scanned it, checking the date—three weeks away—then froze at the vendor name.
Rise & Shine Bakery.
Shit, of course.
Morrison had booked it six months ago, before anyone had considered I might return to Station 47.
Shit.
I stared at her signature at the bottom of the page. Neat, precise handwriting. She'd probably been excited about this, I imagined. It was a big event, good exposure for the bakery, and a chance to show what she could do for large-scale catering.
With more than three hundred people in attendance, the Firefighter's Charity Breakfast was huge. Families, city officials, press coverage. Canceling now would cost her money and reputation. Still, with me back at the helm of Station 47, was this something Piper still wanted?
Maybe I could call. Or email. Tell her we'd found another vendor, make up some excuse. Let her save face and avoid the whole thing.
But that felt like making another decision for her. Like the old me, always assuming I knew what was best, what she wanted.
No. She deserved the choice.
I checked my watch. 5:30 PM. The bakery closed at six.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing outside Rise & Shine, second-guessing everything.
Through the window, I could see her wiping down the display case.
Her hair was falling out of its ponytail, little wisps framing her face.
One of her employees, some college-aged girl with purple streaks in her hair, was counting the register.
I should leave. This was a bad idea. We'd just found some kind of balance at the coffee shop, some way to exist in the same space without combusting. Why risk it?
But then the girl grabbed her backpack, called something to Piper, and headed for the door. She gave me a curious look as she passed but didn't say anything.
Piper was alone.
If I didn't do this now—
I knocked before I could talk myself out of it.
She looked up, confused, then saw me.
Her whole body went still.
For a moment, we just stared at each other through the glass. Her hand was still on the counter, holding the cleaning rag. A strand of hair had fallen across her cheek, but she didn't move to brush it away.
Then she walked to the door, her steps slow and measured, like she was giving herself time to decide whether to actually open it.
The lock clicked and the door opened maybe six inches.
"We're closed." Her voice was careful.
"I know. I'm sorry. I just—" I held up the folder I'd brought. "There's something you need to know about. For the bakery."
Her eyes flicked to the folder, then back to my face. She was doing that thing where she pressed her thumb against her index finger when she was anxious. I wondered if she knew she did it.
"Okay." She opened the door wider but didn't step back to let me in. "What is it?"
"The Firefighter's Charity Breakfast. Three weeks from now. Morrison booked your bakery six months ago."
Her mouth opened slightly. "Oh, that. Right.”
"I just found the contract today. Going through his files." I shifted my weight, shoulder aching. "I wanted to… if you need to back out, I get it. We can find another vendor. No penalties, nothing like that. I'll handle it."
She was quiet for a long moment. Behind her, the coffee machine let out a soft hiss as it cooled. The bakery smelled like vanilla and butter and something cinnamon.
"You drove here to tell me that?"
"I thought you should have the choice."
She studied my face. I could see her processing, weighing options. Her thumb still pressed against her finger, a tiny nervous gesture that made something in my chest tighten.
"It's a big event," she said finally.
"Three hundred people. Good press coverage. The mayor usually shows."
A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows. She was doing the math—the exposure, the money, the complications. Her business brain fighting with... everything else.
"Come in." She stepped back. "You're letting all the heat out."
I followed her inside, trying not to notice how familiar it still felt to be in her presence, or the way she moved through her space with automatic efficiency.
She walked behind the counter, putting a barrier between us, and set down her cleaning rag. "You want coffee?"
"I'm good."
"I'm making myself some." She turned to the machine, giving herself something to do with her hands. "Long day."
I stayed by the door, folder still in my hand. Safe distance. The shop felt quieter, more intimate, after hours. The overhead lights were off, just the warm glow from the display cases and the pendant lights over the counter.
"You could have called," she said, her back still to me as she worked the espresso machine.
"I could have."
She glanced over her shoulder, assessing me. Then back to her task. "But you didn't."
"Seemed like the coward's way out."
The machine hissed and steam rose in the air.
"Not everything has to be about cowardice or bravery," she said as the milk steamer shrieked. "Sometimes a phone call is just easier."
"Maybe." I set the folder on the closest table. "But this felt like something I should do in person."
She finished with the milk, poured it into her cup with practiced precision. Her hands were completely steady, but mine weren't.
“The display case looks different,” I said, thinking of how crowded it’d been the last time I came in. I immediately wished I hadn’t brought it up.
She glanced at it, frowned. "November's always slower. People save their carb splurges for the holidays."
"Right."
"Plus that new Sweet Dreams Café opened on Third." She said it casually, but her jaw tightened slightly. "They're doing buy-one-get-one everything through December."
Sweet Dreams was a chain, of course. They could afford to take losses that would sink a small business.
"That's..." I started, then stopped. Not my place to comment on her business challenges.
"It's fine," she said, reading my expression. "Just need to get the word out more. Maybe finally figure out this whole social media thing." She gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Turns out making good pastries and marketing them are completely different skills."
Something shifted in her posture—embarrassment maybe, at admitting any struggle to me. She took a sip of her coffee, then squared her shoulders. "So. The charity breakfast."
Back to business, safe ground.
"You don't have to decide now," I said.
"No, I've decided." She set down her cup with a soft click. "I'll do it."
"You sure?"
"It's a contract. I signed it. Plus…” She lifted her chin slightly, that stubborn tilt I remembered. "I'm not going to turn down three hundred potential customers just because you'll be there."
Just because you'll be there. The words hung between us, acknowledging everything we weren't saying.
"Okay." I turned toward the door, then remembered. "The folder… Invoice details, timeline, Morrison's notes about dietary restrictions. It's all there."
"Thanks."
I turned and put my hand on the door handle. The cold metal was grounding. "I'll make sure someone else from the station handles the coordination. Carlos, probably. You won't have to—"
"Liam."
I stopped.
"We're going to run into each other." Her voice was steady and matter-of-fact. "Riverside's not that big. And I'm not going to hide from you, and you're apparently not going to hide from me, so..." She shrugged. "We'll figure it out."
The words were practical, but there was something underneath them. Not forgiveness, but.. acknowledgment. That we existed in the same space, that we'd have to learn to navigate it.
"Yeah," I said. "We'll figure it out."
She was backlit by the warm light of the display cases, hair still falling loose around her face, thumb pressed against her coffee cup. Beautiful. Tired. Determined to succeed despite the chain store, despite November being slow, despite everything.
"Night, Piper."
"Goodnight."
I pushed open the door. The cold hit immediately, sharp and clarifying. Behind me, I heard the lock clicking into place.