Chapter 3 – Logan #2
"Those people are idiots," I say, with more force than I intended.
Savannah looks up, startled.
"I mean it," I continue, leaning forward. "Anyone who doesn't see how remarkable you are isn't paying attention."
"You barely know me," she points out, but there's a vulnerability in her expression that makes my chest ache.
"I know enough," I tell her, and realize with surprise that it's true.
I take a sip of hot chocolate, watching Savannah over the rim of my mug as she wraps her hands around her own cup, her fingers delicate against the ceramic.
"So," I begin, curious to know more about the woman behind the pastries, "have you always lived in Whitetail Falls?"
"No, actually," she says, looking up with a small smile. "I'm originally from Seattle."
"Seattle? How did you end up here?" I ask, genuinely surprised. She seems so perfectly fitted to this small town that I can't imagine her navigating city streets.
"My grandmother lived here. I spent every summer with her as a kid, learning to bake in that little kitchen." Her eyes soften with the memory, crinkling slightly at the corners. "When culinary school didn't work out—"
"You went to culinary school?" I interrupt, leaning forward slightly.
"For a year," she nods, a hint of something like old disappointment crossing her face. "I realized I didn't want to be a chef in someone else's restaurant. I wanted to make things that reminded people of home." She shrugs, a small, self-conscious movement. "When Gran passed, I came here."
Her knee brushes against mine under the small table, and a ridiculous jolt travels up my leg like I'm sixteen again. I should be embarrassed by how strongly I react to such casual contact, but I find myself shifting slightly, maintaining the connection.
"What about you?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. "Always wanted to be a firefighter?"
"Actually, I was pre-med in college," I admit, something I don't usually share with people I'm trying to impress. "Everyone expected me to become a doctor like my father."
"What changed?" Savannah asks, her attention fully on me, no sign of the nervousness that sometimes makes her look away.
"Car accident my junior year. Nothing serious, but the first responders..." I trail off, remembering the calm efficiency, the immediate purpose. "They had this certainty about them. This clarity. I kept thinking about it for weeks afterward."
Savannah watches me intently, like she's collecting each word. "So you switched paths."
"To my father's eternal disappointment," I nod, smiling ruefully. "But I've never regretted it."
"I can't imagine you as a doctor," she says, then immediately blushes. "I mean—"
"No, you're right," I laugh, oddly pleased that she sees me so clearly. "I'd be terrible. All that paperwork, those fluorescent lights. I need to move, to be outside, to do something immediate."
We fall into an easy rhythm after that, trading stories about first jobs and worst cooking disasters .
When she laughs at my terrible joke about my first disastrous attempt at CPR training, I find myself leaning closer, drawn to the way her entire face transforms, her usual reserve falling away completely.
"My brother would like you," I tell her as she steals the last cranberry from what was definitely my half. "He appreciates people who aren't afraid to take food from his plate."
"You have a brother?" she asks, looking surprised.
"Older. Lives in Portland with his wife and kids. Pediatrician, of course. The good son."
She studies me for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "You don't sound bitter."
"I'm not," I realize, meaning it. "We found our own paths. It worked out."
Outside, snow has started falling again, fat flakes drifting past the windows in the dim evening light.
"Want to walk for a bit?" I ask, not ready for the evening to end.
Savannah nods, and we step outside into the gently falling snow. The streets are quiet, most businesses closed for the night. Holiday lights reflect off the fresh powder, casting everything in a soft, multicolored glow. Without discussing it, we start walking, our breath fogging in the cold air.
"It's beautiful," Savannah says, looking up at the falling snow with childlike wonder. A flake lands on her eyelashes, and I have to physically restrain myself from brushing it away.
"Yes," I agree, not looking at the snow at all.
We pause beneath the large pine in the town square, its branches heavy with decorations that shimmer in the dim light. Savannah stands close enough that I can feel her warmth, her face upturned to mine, snowflakes melting in her hair.
I lean in slightly, drawn by a force I can't resist. Savannah's eyes widen, her lips parting on a soft inhale.
"This is good," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. "For the fake dating thing, I mean. Being seen together like this. It makes it more believable."
The words hit like ice water. Fake dating. Right.
I straighten, something cold and heavy settling in my chest. Of course. This is all part of the act for her. The laughing, the shared dessert, the walking close—just maintaining our cover.
"Right," I say, forcing a smile that feels wooden. "Exactly."
Confusion flickers across her face. I step back slightly, creating distance between us, and something like hurt flashes in her eyes.
Before either of us can say anything more, my radio crackles to life at my hip, dispatch's voice cutting through the quiet night: "All units respond, structure fire at 1752 Briarwood Road. Repeat, all units..."
Adrenaline surges through me, muscle memory taking over.
"I have to go," I tell Savannah, already reaching for my phone to call the station directly.
"Of course," she says, worry etching itself across her features. "Be careful."
I want to say more, to explain that this isn't how I wanted our evening to end, to tell her that nothing about tonight felt fake to me, but there's no time. Lives could be at stake.
"I'll come back," I promise instead, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. Then I'm running toward the station, the cold air burning my lungs, leaving Savannah standing alone in the falling snow.
The house on Briarwood Road is already engulfed when we arrive six minutes later, flames licking out windows, black smoke billowing against the night sky.
The contrast is brutal—fire against snow, destruction against winter's stillness.
My mind shifts fully into professional mode, assessing risks, planning entry points, cataloging resources as I pull on my gear with practiced efficiency.
"Neighbor says Mrs. Caldwell is still inside," Paul shouts as we finish gearing up. "Upstairs bedroom, east side."
"I've got her," I respond immediately, already checking my mask and oxygen.
Paul gives me a sharp nod. "Bradley, back him up. Nathan, get medical ready."
The rush of entering a burning building never gets easier, never becomes routine.
Heat slams into me like a physical force, smoke immediately obscuring my vision despite the mask.
The staircase groans under my weight, weakened by flames eating through the structure.
Sweat runs down my back despite the winter night outside.
I push forward, moving toward where I know the bedrooms should be.
The smoke thickens, making it nearly impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.
"Fire department! Call out!" I shout, straining to hear any response over the roar of the flames.
A faint sound draws me to the right. I find Mrs. Caldwell on the floor beside her bed, conscious but disoriented, struggling to breathe in the toxic air.
"I've got you," I tell her, my voice muffled through the mask. "I'm going to get you out."
I lift her and turn back toward the hallway. That's when I hear it: the ominous crack of structural support giving way. I shield Mrs. Caldwell with my body as debris crashes down, something sharp glancing off my shoulder. Pain flares, but there's no time to assess the damage.
"Bradley!" I call into my radio. "East hallway's compromised. Coming out the back stairs."
Navigating through the burning house is like moving through a nightmare, visibility near zero, heat searing even through protective gear, the constant threat of collapse. Every instinct screams to move faster, but I force myself to maintain control, to keep Mrs. Caldwell secure against my chest.
For a brief, surreal moment, Savannah's face flashes through my mind—her smile, her eyes, the way she looked at me across the bakery table. The image grounds me somehow, a reminder of something worth returning to.
When we finally break through the back door into the winter air, the contrast is shocking, from inferno to ice in seconds.
Steam rises from my gear as snow melts against the residual heat.
My lungs burn with each breath, a cough building in my chest. Nathan rushes forward with a stretcher as I gently set Mrs. Caldwell down.
She clutches my hand, murmuring thank yous through her oxygen mask.
"You're okay now," I tell her, my voice rough from smoke. "You're safe."
As the ambulance loads her, the adrenaline begins to fade, leaving me shaky and suddenly aware of the throbbing in my shoulder.
I pull off my mask, gulping fresh air that feels like knives in my smoke-irritated throat.
That's when I hear it, my name, called out with such urgency it cuts through everything else.
I turn and see Savannah pushing through the small crowd that's gathered behind the police line.
Something shifts inside me at the sight of her—a piece clicking into place that I didn't even realize was missing.
I'm filthy, exhausted, probably looking like hell, but when our eyes meet, I can't help the smile that forms despite everything.