Chapter 5
Caleb
The parking lot glistens under the store lights.
The pavement is still wet from an afternoon drizzle.
The air smells faintly of earth and thawing snow, that early-spring scent that carries both chill and promise.
I wasn’t planning to stop. But as I passed the store, I pulled into the parking lot.
I tell myself it’s just a quick errand, a bag of coffee, maybe some milk.
But fate, it seems, has better timing than I do.
Maggie Turner stands halfway down the baking aisle, head bent, reading a label as if it holds a secret.
Her cart’s already half full—flour, potatoes, carrots, a carton of milk, a few cans stacked neatly at the front.
Nothing indulgent, nothing sweet. Just the kind of groceries that stretch a dollar if you know how to make them last.
I pause a moment longer, pretending to study the shelf. How far does she make it all go? With her father too sick to work and her home out on that old stretch of road, there’s no steady income. Maybe a pension, maybe a little help from neighbors or family, but not much more.
It shouldn’t bother me this much. Yet the thought of her counting coins at the register makes my jaw tighten.
I stop at the end of the aisle, basket in hand, pretending to study the sign overhead. Baking supplies. I’ve got no business here. The only thing I ever turn the oven on for is frozen pizza. Still, my feet don’t move.
I shift my grip on the basket, trying to look casual even though I’m just standing there, staring like a fool.
The fluorescent light catches in her hair, soft brown with a hint of gold.
She tucks a strand behind her ear, and for some reason the small, ordinary gesture knocks the breath right out of me.
For a second, I consider walking on. But she looks up, eyes meeting mine, and the decision’s made before I can think twice.
Recognition flickers across her face then warmth.
“Doctor Chambers,” she says. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”
“It’s Caleb, Maggie, and I guess Ironwood’s smaller than you thought.” I nod toward her cart. “You’re making something good, I hope.”
“Just restocking.”
I glance at the shelves. Rows of flour, sugar, baking soda. I reach for a random bag just to have something in my hands. “You bake a lot?”
She nods, lifting a box of baking soda. “Almost every day. It helps me think. And Dad eats better when I bake. Bread, muffins, anything warm helps.” She puts the baking soda back on the shelf. “The smell does something. Makes him think he’s hungry, even when he isn’t.”
“That’s reason enough.” I drop the bag of flour into my basket. “What do you recommend for someone who hasn’t baked since… ever?”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Start with banana bread. Hard to ruin, smells amazing. Everyone thinks you worked harder than you did.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
She turns her cart toward the refrigerated section, the front wheel rattling against a loose tile as I fall into step beside her.
The air grows cooler, sharp with the scent of dairy and something faintly metallic from the shelves.
She pauses, fingertips gliding over the rows of eggs before picking one up and checking the bottom.
I grab a carton of milk, condensation slick beneath my fingers, and let the cold seep into my skin while she steers us both forward down the aisle.
“I’m not a baker.” I set the milk in my basket.
Her mouth twitches, like she’s trying not to react, but the effort fails. A quiet smile spreads, small at first, then steady enough to reach her eyes.
“Yeah, I figured as much.” She nudges the cart forward. The wheel squeaks once before settling into rhythm.
We drift toward the front, her cart rolling steady beside me, my basket hooked in one hand. It’s fuller than I planned—half impulse, half excuse. She moves with quiet purpose, every item deliberate, while mine’s a jumble of whatever I’ve picked up just to keep her company.
At the end of the aisle, she slows near the wall of teas. Rows of colorful boxes line the shelves, all promising calm, focus, sleep. Her fingers hover before choosing the cheapest black tea on the rack. She drops it into the cart like it’s a habit, not a choice.
I match her pace, pretending to study the shelves when really I’m watching the quiet set of her shoulders, the way she pushes that stray lock of hair behind her ear before steering the cart toward the registers.
Maeve’s behind the counter. Her wrists are wrapped in beige compression sleeves. When she spots me, her whole face brightens.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite doctor,” she calls, scanning the first few items from my cart. “Those meds you gave me are working wonders. I can finally open jars again.”
I set my basket on the counter. “Glad to hear it, Maeve. If it flares up again, come in before it gets bad.”
She gives me a mock glare. “Don’t tempt me, Doc. I might fake a twinge just to get out of this place for a day.”
Maggie’s laugh slips out before she can stop it. It’s a soft, genuine sound that turns a few heads in line. It’s low and warm, like something fragile shaking off the dust, and when she meets my eyes, and there’s a faint pink in her cheeks that makes her look like the young woman I used to love.
Maeve’s gaze flicks between us while she scans another item. Her smile turns knowing.
“Well,” she says lightly, “nice seeing you two together again.”
Maggie looks down at the conveyor belt for a second too long, fingers tightening around the handle of the cart while something soft and uncertain flickers across her face.
Maeve keeps scanning groceries like she hasn’t just reached straight into old history and tugged, until she’s done.
I swipe my card.
Maeve starts scanning her groceries, and while Maggie fishes for her wallet, I slide the chocolate bar from my stack of groceries into Maggie’s reusable shopper. Maeve’s eyes widen, before a small conspiratorial smile starts to form. She doesn’t say a word.
Maggie reaches for one of the bags and pauses when the Sea-salt caramel chocolate bar shifts near the top.
A laugh escapes her, and when she meets my gaze her eyes twinkle.
Of course I remember.
Back when we were together, I brought her one before every exam because I could swear chocolate improved both her mood and her grades.
She glances up at me then, something softer moving across her face before she looks away again.
After Mags pays with cash, I gather our bags. “Let me help.”
“I can carry my own bag.” She makes a grab for one of the bags, fingers brushing mine before I lift it just out of reach.
“You must be busy.” Her tone is polite, but there’s tension beneath it which is probably more habit than defiance.
It’s a reflex that comes from doing everything herself for too long.
“Never too busy for you, Mags.”
The nickname lands between us like something pulled out of storage after years untouched. Her lips part like she’s about to protest, but nothing comes out. For a second, she just looks at me, and I can almost see the memories moving behind those deep-brown eyes.
Outside, the evening’s turned colder, the air misty with a fine drizzle. The lot glows with pale reflections of the overhead lights. We walk side by side, our breath fogging faintly. She stops beside her car, fumbling for her keys.
“I can take it from here.”
Her chin lifts a fraction, a gesture meant to look firm, but her hands tell a different story. They hover near the bags, and her fingers flex as if she can’t decide whether to grab them or let me keep hold. Her shoulders tense, then ease, like she’s bracing for an argument that doesn’t come.
I set the bags on the hood and take a steadying breath. I’m close enough that the scent of her shampoo—something faint and clean—curls into the cold air between us. “I know you can.” My voice stays even, but something tightens in my chest. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”
She exhales, eyes darting toward mine before sliding away again. The faintest crease forms between her brows, curiosity edging out caution. For a heartbeat, she stands still. I wait for her to retreat or protest. She just breathes and watches.
The rush hits me fast, that jitter of adrenaline that feels too much like winning a fight you didn’t plan to start. Every sense sharpens. The cold. The sound of her breath. The weight of the space closing between us.
“Maggie,” I murmur.
She blinks, lashes trembling. “Yes?”
Her breath hitches, and I feel the shift before I see it as hesitation gives way to something softer. The night air curls around us, cool against the heat radiating between our bodies.
I reach out, slow enough to give her room to step back. She doesn’t. My fingers find her wrist first, light pressure, a question more than a command. When she doesn’t pull away, I slide higher until my hand rests along her forearm. Her pulse flutters beneath my thumb.
“Maggie.” Her name leaves me rougher than I mean it to. She looks up then, eyes wide, mouth parting just enough to steal my restraint.
I draw her closer, guiding rather than pulling, the way I might ease a patient toward trust. But this isn’t about healing. This is need and… inevitable.
Her palms land on my chest. The warmth of her touch seeps through my shirt, and I swear I feel it straight through to the bone.
When I lower my head, her breath fans across my lips, tasting faintly of spring and nerves.
The first brush of her mouth is hesitant—barely there—but then she sighs, and the sound undoes me.
I tilt my head, deepening the kiss, coaxing rather than claiming.
Her lips part under mine, soft and searching, and the world narrows to that small, perfect point of contact.
Her hands fist in my jacket. My grip slides to her waist. She yields so easily it steals my breath; there’s nothing forced here, just two people finding the space they didn’t know they’d been missing.
By the time I pull back, we’re both unsteady. Her eyes are unfocused, and her lips are parted and swollen from our kiss. I rest my forehead against hers and let out a slow breath, my hands still at her hips, unwilling to let go.
“Tell me to let you go,” I whisper.
She tilts her head. It’s a tiny movement, and it brushes her lips against mine. I pull her closer and claim her mouth again. This time I let the restraint slip.
Her gasp trembles against my mouth, and the sound threads straight through me.
She tastes of warmth and want, and her body goes soft and yielding beneath my hands.
Her fingers clutch at my shoulders, digging in and searching for balance or maybe for more.
I angle the kiss deeper and let it build until every breath she takes feels like mine.
When I finally pull back, the world feels smaller, quieter, like everything’s holding its breath.
“I should…” she whispers, glancing toward the car door.
I nod, my thumb brushing her jaw before I step aside and open the door for her. “Get home safe.”
Her eyes lift to mine, soft and a little dazed. “You too.”
I wait until she’s settled behind the wheel before closing the door. Her car pulls away slowly, taillights glowing red through the mist.
The taste of her still lingers.