Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jules
“Are you wearing…” Sarge trails off, his brow furrowing as his eyes drop to the flannel I have wrapped around me.
I follow his gaze and feel my cheeks heat. It’s definitely Corbin’s. I didn’t even think twice when I grabbed it this morning. It was cold, and Tate was still fast asleep when I snuck out. Corbin had teased me that if I kept ‘borrowing’ his clothes, I’d end up with half his closet.
I force a casual smile, trying to play it off. “This old thing?” I tug at the sleeve. “What about it?”
His lips twitch, but not in amusement. “Jules… I know that’s Corbin’s.” His voice is soft—gentle even—but there's concern etched into every word. “What’s going on?”
I busy myself wiping down the counter, trying to ignore the way he’s watching me. “What are you doing here on your day off?” I deflect, glancing at him over my shoulder.
He shrugs, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets as he leans against the other side of the counter. “I just wanted to check on you,” he says quietly. “You’ve seemed… different lately. Distracted. I figured maybe we could pour a cup of coffee and talk.”
I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious but touched. “Since when do you want to have coffee and talk?”
Sarge lets out a small laugh but quickly grows serious again.
“Since I started worrying.” He pauses. “Jules, I know you think I’m always butting into your business, but I was there…
when everything fell apart before. I was the one watching you try to keep it together.
I saw how hard it was for you to build this life, to put yourself back together, and I don’t…
” He sighs, running a hand through his blond hair.
“I just don’t want to see you fall apart again. ”
I stop wiping the counter and meet his eyes, feeling that familiar squeeze in my chest.
“You’re seeing him, aren’t you?” he says softly, like he’s afraid to even ask.
“And look, I know how that sounds. I know I’m just your brother, and I have no right to tell you how to live your life.
” He leans closer, his voice lowering, more vulnerable.
“But Jules… you were wrecked when he let you go. And I don’t think I’ve ever really stopped being angry about that.
Because no one should ever make you feel like you’re not enough. ”
I swallow hard. Because his words hit closer to home than I want to admit.
“You worked so hard for this,” Sarge continues, gesturing around the coffee shop. “This dream. You built it from nothing. You made a life for yourself and Tate. And if he’s coming back in… I just need to know you’re okay. That you know what you’re doing.”
I set the rag down, my fingers trembling slightly. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Sarge.” I meet his gaze, unflinching. “But I know I don’t want to make decisions out of fear. I don’t want to keep him away just because I’m scared to get hurt again. And… he’s different now.”
Sarge studies me for a long moment, then nods, though his jaw is tight. “If you say he’s different, I’ll trust you. But Jules…” He leans in, his voice low but firm. “If he hurts you again, I’ll be the one he’ll have to answer to.”
A soft laugh escapes me, but there’s a lump in my throat. “I know.”
“And for what it’s worth,” he adds, softer now, “I get it. I get why you’d want to give him another chance. You’ve always loved him.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, blinking back tears. “I have.”
He reaches over and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Just… don’t forget to protect that heart of yours, okay? It’s a good one. You deserve someone who treats it right.”
I nod, gripping his hand a little tighter. “Thank you.”
He lets me go, straightening with a soft smile. “Come on. Let me make you a cup of coffee. Big brothers get to do that much, right?”
“Yeah,” I say with a watery smile. “I’d like that.”
***
“Sarge stopped by,” I say quietly into the phone as I curl deeper into bed, still wrapped up in Corbin’s flannel like it’s armor.
Corbin’s voice softens on the other end. “How did that go?”
I sink farther under the covers, tucking the phone close to my ear as though it might close the distance between us. “He’s worried,” I admit, my fingers absently brushing over the worn fabric at the sleeve.
“About us?” Corbin asks, his tone careful.
“You. More specifically,” I whisper.
There’s a long sigh on his end. “Maybe we should just tell Tate.”
My heart skips, my pulse picking up speed. “I don’t know…” I hesitate. “Do you think this is… do you think we’re really doing this? I mean—us?”
Corbin is quiet for a beat before answering, steady and sure. “Sarge knows, Jules. And if he knows, what happens if he lets it slip around Tate? I don’t want our son hearing it from anyone but us.”
I chew on my lower lip, conflicted. “I didn’t tell him,” I say softly. “He figured it out… I was wearing your shirt and he just knew .”
“I’m not mad about that,” Corbin rushes to reassure me, his voice gentle. “I just think maybe Tate should’ve been the first one to know. He deserves that much.”
I close my eyes, sighing as the weight of it all presses on my chest. “You’re right. I know you’re right. I just—” I swallow. “Can I sleep on it? I want to be sure… before we say anything.”
“Yeah,” Corbin says softly, though I hear the weariness in his voice. He yawns, and I smile despite myself.
“You’re exhausted,” I murmur.
“I’m fine,” he lies. Badly.
“How long has Tate been asleep?” I ask, mostly to keep him on the line a little longer, needing the sound of his voice.
“About an hour now,” he says, another yawn stretching the words.
“You need to get some sleep.”
“Not if it means getting off the phone with you,” he murmurs, and my heart aches in that sweet, sharp way it always does when he says things like that.
“I’ll call you in the morning when I get up?” I offer gently, though neither of us seems quite ready to hang up.
Corbin sighs. “I wish you were here right now. If we’d already told Tate… you could be here. You could be falling asleep next to me.”
The thought makes my chest tight with longing. Part of me wants to grab my keys, drive over, and crawl into bed with him just to be close.
“Soon,” I promise quietly. “Soon.”
“Good night, Jules,” he says, the sound low and full of meaning.
“Good night, Corbin,” I whisper.
When I hang up, the silence in my apartment feels heavier than usual. I turn onto my side, pulling Corbin’s flannel tighter around me like it’s a stand-in for him.
My thoughts drift to that night Tate was sick.
The night Corbin stayed and held me briefly.
I miss that. I miss him . Not just for what we’ve done lately, not just for the physical things, but for that .
For the comfort of having him there when life feels overwhelming.
For the warmth of his presence in bed, the sound of his soft breathing beside me.
But it’s not just him I miss. It’s them . Corbin and Tate. My family.
If Corbin and I can figure this out—if we really try—maybe I wouldn’t have to miss them at all. Maybe I’d get to have what I’ve wanted all along.
We need to tell Tate. He deserves to know.
The thought tumbles around in my head as my eyelids grow heavier and sleep starts pulling me under.
Soon , I think as I drift off. We’ll figure it out soon.
But there’s a sound—sharp, relentless, blaring. A loud beep , over and over again.
My eyes stay squeezed shut for a moment as I try to place it. It’s annoying. Constant.
Then I cough—hard—pulling in a lungful of air that tastes like smoke.
Panic slices through me.
My eyes fly open, stinging and burning as I bolt upright in bed, heart pounding against my ribs like a drum.
The beeping. Smoke. My throat tightens.
My brain struggles to catch up, but when it finally does, realization crashes into me.
The fire alarm.
I cough again, harder this time, as thick, gray smoke creeps into the room like an unwelcome shadow.
Oh my God.
I snatch my phone off the nightstand, fingers shaking so hard I nearly drop it. I stumble out of bed and race for Tate’s room, the smoke growing heavier with every step.
But his bed is empty. Empty .
For one heart-stopping moment, my body turns cold.
Then I remember he’s with Corbin. He’s safe.
A shaky sob escapes my lips as relief floods me. But I don’t have time to dwell. I spot Igor on Tate’s bed and grab the robotic snake, clutching it to my chest like a lifeline as I drop to my knees.
The hallway is a haze of swirling smoke. I get low, crawling fast, one arm wrapped around Igor, the other shielding my face.
Fire . Oh God. There’s a fire.
The acrid smell makes my eyes water, my throat raw.
I scramble toward the door, my hand searching blindly for my purse. Finding it by some miracle, I sling it over my shoulder and fumble with the lock.
The moment the door swings open, a wall of smoke rushes in from the stairwell. I throw my arm over my mouth, holding my breath as best I can and sprint barefoot down the stairs. My feet slap against the cold, rough steps as I try to ignore how the smoke stings my skin and eyes.
My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it over the fire alarm.
When I burst outside, the cool night air hits me sharp, but clean. I gulp it in as my eyes focus on the flames —bright and angry, licking at the windows of the bakery below.
No. No, no, no .
Tears blur my vision as I clutch Igor and my purse tighter, stumbling farther down the sidewalk until I’m safely away from the heat.
With trembling fingers, I fumble to unlock my phone.
Call 911, my brain screams, though my hands can barely work. I finally press the button and hold the phone to my ear, trying to catch my breath.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
My voice is hoarse and shaky as I force out, “There’s a fire… Bakery on Main Street.”
“Fire has already been dispatched,” the operator tells me calmly. “The fire alarm alerted us. Units are in route now. They should arrive in minutes. Are you safe? Are you hurt?”