Kaia
For one blissful second after I wake, I do not remember where I am.
Then I open my eyes to dark wooden furniture, unfamiliar walls, and a pillow that smells faintly of laundry detergent, and everything comes back at once.
The smoke. The fire. My house.
Pressure builds behind my eyes before I can stop it, and I turn my face into the pillow, pressing my lips together hard enough to hurt.
Almost everything I owned is gone.
My car is probably fine, but the rest of it is another story.
The clothes I held onto for years because I kept telling myself I would wear them on special occasions.
The paintings stacked against the spare-room wall.
The ridiculous orange cushions my mother surely would have hated.
The little ceramic bowl Joyce gave me after graduation.
Every ordinary thing I stopped noticing because I assumed it would still be there tomorrow.
My throat tightens, and for a moment I let myself feel it.
Then I breathe.
I left home once with everything I owned packed into a car and a tiny trailer. I built something new after that, piece by piece, badly matched picture frame by badly matched picture frame.
I can do it again.
The thought does not magically fix anything. My chest still hurts, and I still want to cry over a fern named Ivy, but I can start over.
I know how.
Unfortunately, that thought leads directly to another memory.
Zain’s mouth on mine.
Heat climbs my face before I am even fully awake, and I close my eyes again.
Excellent.
Apparently, humiliation survives anything.
The kiss comes back with cruel clarity: his hand at the back of my neck, the hard pull of his body, the rough sound he made when I moved against him.
Then the moment he stopped.
My stomach twists.
I am still angry, but I am also, annoyingly, capable of understanding why he did it.
Zain found me after a nightmare, scared and shaking in his bed, and when I kissed him, he worried that I was reaching for the person who had rescued me rather than the man himself. From his side, stopping was probably the decent thing to do.
I know that. I even respect it.
What I do not respect is him deciding that I could not possibly know my own mind.
That part can still go to hell.
I push back the sheets and sit up.
The cabin is quiet beyond the bedroom door, and for a few seconds I consider staying exactly where I am until he leaves for work, retires, or dies peacefully at the age of one hundred and six.
Then the smell of coffee reaches me.
Traitorous coffee.
A second scent follows.
Toast.
My stomach growls.
Fine.
I can face one emotionally constipated fire chief.
Probably.
I smooth both hands over the shirt I slept in, then remember that I am still wearing nothing underneath it except underwear.
Well, it is what it is. I do not exactly have options.
I open the bedroom door.
Zain is standing at the kitchen counter with his back to me.
I stop.
This is unfair.
He is wearing gray shorts and a plain white T-shirt, which should be one of the least interesting outfits ever invented.
On Zain, it is a problem. The shirt stretches across his shoulders and back, the sleeves fit snugly around his arms, and the shorts show off strong calves and an ass I am not emotionally prepared to process before caffeine.
His hair is slightly damp.
He looks domestic.
Somehow, that is worse.
This version of him, standing in a quiet kitchen making breakfast, reaches somewhere different.
He turns, and our eyes meet.
For one horrible second, I remember exactly how his mouth felt against mine.
His expression does not change.
“Morning.”
I blink.
That is it? No awkward silence. No apology. No grim declaration that last night was a mistake.
Just morning.
“Morning.”
His gaze moves over my face.
“How’s your breathing?”
Of course.
“Fine.”
One eyebrow lifts.
I sigh. “A little scratchy. No worse than last night.”
“Dizzy?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“Only when interrogated before coffee.”
He turns back to the counter.
A mug waits there.
For me.
I approach carefully. “Is that mine?”
“Yes.”
I pick it up and take a sip.
Cream. Sugar. Exactly right.
I lower the mug. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”
Zain looks at me over his own cup.
“I didn’t. I thought you might need it that way today.”
My heart does something foolish.
I glance at him, but his face is unreadable again.
Fine. Two can play this game.
Except I cannot. I am terrible at this game.
He sets a plate on the table with toast, eggs, and sliced fruit. Nothing elaborate, but the sight of it makes my throat tighten for reasons I refuse to investigate before breakfast.
“You cooked.”
“I made eggs.”
“That qualifies.”
“Sit.”
I point at him with my mug. “You are very close to getting compared to a dog trainer again.”
“Sit, Kaia.”
I sit, mostly because the eggs smell good.
We eat quietly for a while. The silence is not exactly comfortable, but it is not hostile either. Zain checks my breathing twice without asking by watching me over his coffee, and I pretend not to notice.
Eventually he says, “Sleep at all?”
“A little.”
His jaw shifts.
I know he is thinking about the nightmare and the kiss.
So am I.
Neither of us touches it.
I take another bite of toast.
Cowards, both of us.
When we finish, Zain stands and retrieves a paper shopping bag from beside the counter, then places it in front of me.
I look inside.
Then at him.
“What is this?”
“Clothes.”
I pull out a soft yellow top, then jeans, then another shirt. A package of underwear still sealed in plastic sits beneath them.
My eyes widen.
There are socks, a simple bra in what looks suspiciously like my size, a pair of flat sandals, and toiletries.
I stare at the pile.
“You bought me clothes.”
“You needed them.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
I look at the clock.
It is barely eight.
“How early were you awake?”
He ignores that.
I pick up the yellow top again, and my chest does that strange shifting thing.
It is exactly the kind of color I wear.
I look at the jeans.
Then at him.
“How do you know my size?”
His expression remains perfectly neutral.
“I checked the clothes you took off last night.”
I blink. “You checked the tags?”
“Yes.”
“That is disturbingly efficient.”
“You needed clothes.”
I laugh before I can stop myself.
The sound feels strange after everything.
Good strange.
Then I notice the time again.
My eyes widen. “I have class.”
“No.”
I look up. “What?”
“You’re not teaching today.”
There it is.
The dictator returns.
“I absolutely am.”
“You were in a fire last night.”
“I remember.”
“You barely slept.”
“I have coffee.”
“That is not medical treatment.”
“Depends on who you ask.”
His stare hardens.
Mine does too.
“The kids are expecting me.”
“Someone else can cover.”
“I do not want someone else to cover.”
“Kaia.”
“No.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
Interesting.
I lean forward. “Those children do not stop needing their class because my house burned. I am going.”
“You need rest.”
“I need normal.”
That stops him.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Then his jaw tightens.
“Eat the rest of your breakfast.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is that a yes?”
“I’m driving you.”
A smile breaks across my face before I can stop it.
He points at me. “Do not look that pleased.”
“Impossible.”
Half an hour later, I am dressed in the yellow top and jeans he bought me, carrying my sketchbook in the paper bag because I still do not own a purse anymore.
Zain drives.
When the community center comes into view, something inside me settles. The low brick building is still there, the wide windows are still catching the morning light, and children are already playing on the patch of grass outside.
This place is still here.
Several of them are under another staff member’s supervision, and the second Zain parks, Penny sees me.
“Miss Kaia!”
Three small bodies come running.
I barely close the truck door before Penny wraps both arms around my waist.
“You didn’t die!”
I look down at her. “Good morning to you too.”
“My mom said your house burned.”
“Your mom is very informed.”
Theo stops beside her and looks at Zain, then at me, then back at Zain.
His eyes narrow.
I know that look. It is the look of a child about to ruin my life.
“Did you get married?”
I choke.
Zain goes completely still beside me.
“What?”
Theo points between us. “You came together.”
“That is not how marriage works.”
Penny gasps.
“You live with Chief Carson now.”
I stare at her. “How do you know that?”
“My mom knows everything.”
Of course she does.
Another child, Sophie, joins the group.
“Did you get married because your house burned down?”
“No.”
Theo frowns. “Then why do you live with him?”
“It’s temporary.”
Penny nods with deep seriousness.
“That is how my aunt got married.”
I close my eyes.
Behind me, Zain makes a sound suspiciously like a cough.
I turn.
His mouth is completely straight.
Theo looks up at him.
“Are you going to marry Miss Kaia?”
The entire world stops.
Zain looks down at Theo.
“That is not your business.”
Theo nods.
“So yes.”
I make a strangled noise.
Penny beams.
Zain looks at me, and there is something in his eyes I cannot read.
Then he says, “I’ll pick you up at four.”
I recover enough to glare. “No need. I’m meeting Joyce later.”
“Fine. Call if you need anything.”
Before I can answer, he turns and walks back to the truck.
I stare after him.
Penny tugs my hand.
“I like him.”
“Traitor.”
She giggles.
I watch the truck pull away while something uncomfortable settles beneath my ribs.
Last night he kissed me like he had been starving. This morning he bought me clothes, made me breakfast, and acted as if nothing happened.
I have no idea what to do with that.
So I do what I know.
I teach.
By five thirty, I am sitting across from Joyce at The Pines Diner with a slice of pie between us and absolutely no intention of discussing Zain.
This plan lasts approximately forty seconds.
The diner is busy with the early dinner crowd. Red vinyl stools line the long counter, mismatched booths sit beneath the big front windows, and the whole place smells like coffee, fries, and something sweet baking in the kitchen.
Bev Holloway moves between tables with a coffee pot in one hand, short curls bouncing around her face. She has the kind of smile that makes people confess things accidentally, which is why I have learned to avoid extended eye contact when emotionally unstable.
She stops beside our booth.
“You need more pie.”
I look down at the slice already in front of me.
“I have pie.”
“You need more.”
Joyce nods solemnly. “She does.”
“Traitor.”
Bev’s gaze moves over me, warm and assessing, but she does not ask about the fire. She only sets a hand briefly on my shoulder.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good answer.”
Then she moves away.
Joyce watches her go.
“I want Bev to adopt me.”
“Get in line.”
She turns back to me.
Then smiles.
I immediately distrust her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is never true.”
She takes a sip of coffee.
“So.”
“No.”
“I have not asked anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to ask how class went.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Fine.”
“And Chief Carson?”
“There it is.”
Her grin widens.
I stab my pie.
Joyce watches the fork.
“Something happened.”
“Nothing happened.”
“You just assaulted a blueberry.”
“It knew what it did.”
“Kaia.”
I sigh.
She waits.
I hate that about her.
I take another bite of pie, mostly to delay the inevitable.
Then I say, “I kissed him.”
Joyce freezes.
Her coffee cup stops halfway to her mouth.
“You what?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“You kissed Chief Carson?”
Two people at the counter turn.
I sink lower in the booth.
“Excellent work.”
Joyce leans across the table.
“When?”
“Last night.”
“At his house?”
“No, Joyce. We drove to a hotel for privacy.”
She ignores that.
“How?”
“With my mouth.”
“Kaia.”
I groan.
“It was after a nightmare. He came in because I was apparently making noises in my sleep, and I woke up scared, and he held me, and then I kissed him.”
Joyce’s expression changes.
The teasing fades.
“And?”
I look at my pie.
“He kissed me back.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“Really kissed me back.”
“How really?”
“Please do not make me quantify this.”
“Was there tongue?”
I stare at her.
She grins.
“Fine. Continue.”
“He stopped.”
Joyce sobers.
“Okay.”
“He said he should not have done it because I had been through too much and he did not want to take advantage of me.”
She nods slowly.
I stab the pie again.
“And then he told me I did not know how much of what I felt was because he rescued me.”
Joyce winces.
“He was an idiot.”
“Thank you.”
“A respectful idiot.”
“I take it back.”
She reaches across the table and steals my fork.
“Kaia, he stopped while you were in his bed after the worst night of your life. That part is not the problem.”
“I know.”
“The part where he decided you were too confused to know whether you wanted him?”
“Yes.”
“That part can go directly to hell.”
I sit back.
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
Bev appears long enough to refill my coffee, glances at the destroyed pie, and silently leaves another fork.
I love her.
Joyce waits until she is gone.
“Do you want him?”
I look out the window.
“Unfortunately.”
“Kaia, I’m serious.”
The answer comes too easily.
“Yes.”
My stomach knots.
“Yes, I do.”
Joyce studies me.
“Since last night?”
I laugh once.
“God, no.”
That is the ridiculous part.
I wanted him before the fire.
Before I knew what his mouth felt like.
I wanted him when he fixed my porch step and acted like it meant nothing. When he noticed frightened children at the community center. When he stood in my living room and looked at me as if he could see every nervous joke I used to hide behind.
The fire changed a lot of things.
It did not create this.
I look down at the remains of my pie.
“Zain thinks I kissed him because he saved me.”
Joyce says nothing.
“He’s wrong.”
Saying it aloud settles something inside me.
I know exactly what I feel.
The question is what I am going to do about it.