Chapter 2
Adam
Old habits. Firefighter schedules carved into my DNA after twelve years on the job. My body doesn't care that I'm technically on personal leave for another week, that we're in a new house, that everything about my life has been dismantled and reassembled wrong.
I silence the alarm before it can wake Emma and lie in the darkness of my unfamiliar bedroom, listening to the sounds of a house I don't know yet. The heating system kicks on with a rattle the old place never had. A tree branch scrapes against the window. Everything's just slightly off.
I checked on Emma twice during the night. Once at midnight when I couldn't sleep, once at three when I woke from a dream I don't want to remember. She was fine both times—curled around Mr. Fluffkins, breathing deep and even.
I drag myself out of bed and move through the quiet house in the pre-dawn darkness, navigating around boxes I didn't finish unpacking yesterday.
The living room is a maze of cardboard and bubble wrap.
Emma's toys are scattered across the floor despite my attempts at organization. The kitchen is barely functional.
I could still be sleeping. Instead, I start unpacking, creating order out of disorder because that's all I can control right now.
Focus on Emma. Avoid complications. Rebuild stability. Don't screw this up.
The mantra repeats in my head like a prayer. Or a warning.
I unpack kitchen supplies by the glow of the overhead light—plates, cups, utensils. Creating routines. Emma needs routines. Needs to know what to expect. She's had enough disruption. The divorce, the fighting before that, the aftermath, the custody battle, leaving her friends and school behind.
All of it my fault.
Not the affair—that was Sarah's choice. But the rest? The failure to keep our family intact? The inability to make my wife happy?
That's on me.
One week before I start at Willowbridge Fire Station. Captain Torres seems solid, the crew's got a good reputation, and the schedule will give me consistent time with Emma. Structure. Routine. Exactly what we both need.
I'm unpacking kitchen towels when the sky starts to lighten, that bruised pre-dawn grey bleeding into softer shades. I glance out the window toward June's house next door.
Dark.
Completely dark.
I check my watch: 6:15 a.m.
She's already gone. Already at The Sweet Spot, probably has been for hours if Harper's stories are accurate. The bakery opens at seven, which means June was there by four at the latest—mixing dough, prepping pastries, doing whatever magic makes those cupcakes taste the way they do.
I woke up early, and she'd already left.
The thought does something strange to my chest. This woman runs on a schedule that would break most people. Owns her own business at—what, late twenties? Harper mentioned June built The Sweet Spot from nothing, that it's her whole world.
I can see her house from my kitchen window—a small cottage with a front porch and cheerful flower boxes. Right now it's just a dark silhouette, evidence of her absence.
But I know she was there. Know she woke in that darkness, got ready, drove to Main Street while the town still slept.
Know she's there now, working, creating, probably humming to herself while she frosts cupcakes.
I force myself to look away, focus on unpacking, on the careful placement of kitchen towels in the drawer.
Stop thinking about her.
But the dark house next door feels like a presence anyway. Like June Callahan is already taking up space in my life even when she's not here.
Harper's best friend. The woman who brought cupcakes and ended up wearing half of them. The woman whose laugh I can still hear, whose pulse I felt racing under my hand, who smelled like vanilla and sugar.
I shake my head and return to the boxes.
One week until I start at the station. One week to get Emma settled, establish routines, build the stable life she deserves.
I don't have room for distractions.
Even if that distraction lives thirty feet away and makes my chest tight just thinking about her.
I force myself to focus on the next box. Pans and baking sheets. The kitchen gadgets feel foreign now—clean lines and polished steel reflecting a version of myself that's supposed to know what he's doing.
But it's June Callahan messing up my rhythm.
Yesterday's buttercream disaster keeps replaying, looping through my head no matter how many times I try to reset. I give myself the logical reminders I've been rehearsing since Harper told me June would be my neighbor.
She's too young.
She's Harper's best friend.
She's someone with a sunshine smile and a bakery to run, and I’m 35 with a daughter and a mountain of baggage.
It needs to be kept simple—keep things friendly, neighborly, at a safe distance.
But logic isn't cutting it this morning.
Not after the way my body responded the instant she tipped forward and I caught her.
Flour dusted through her hair, sunlight catching every golden strand.
Her wide blue eyes staring up at me, breathless and surprised—and suddenly too aware of my hand catching her elbow, the soft warmth of her pressed to my chest.
She smelled sweet in a way that made me crave more—whatever perfume she wore, whatever lotion, or just the residue of her baked goods.
I remember every detail I couldn’t help but notice.
The tremor in her pulse at her throat, the way her cheeks flushed, her nervous laugh as she tried to brush off the disaster.
I'm annoyed at myself for noticing. For paying attention to how she felt pressed against me, how my hand was reluctant to let go. For the stupid, juvenile thrill at just the thought of seeing her next door—a thousand leagues out of my crisis-ridden orbit.
This isn't what I need. Complications. Risk.
But for all the logic I can muster, there's an ache building inside me I can't shrug off.
It's not just physical—I already know that, and it annoys me more than anything.
I see her nerves, her humor, her untidy humanity—and the part of me that thought it wasn't capable of wanting again is suddenly, inconveniently alive.
I need to focus. Emma needs stability, not me crashing into romance or whatever mess I'd drag June into. I haven't even started my first shift at the fire station, and I'm entertaining crushes? Pathetic.
Still, when I move around the kitchen, I can't help glancing out the window toward the empty house next door again, thinking about her—about all the ways I'm already failing to keep my distance.
Soft footsteps pad down the hallway—bare feet against hardwood, a sound so familiar it grounds me instantly.
I pause mid-flow, setting aside a stack of pans just as Emma peeks around the corner.
She's got wild bed hair sticking out in all directions, one sleeve of her pajamas slipping off her shoulder, Mr. Fluffkins clutched like he might be required for emergency backup.
Her eyes are wary today, peeking up at me from beneath those curls. This house is new for both of us, but she's the one who admits it out loud.
"Morning, princess." I go for a smile that's meant to be reassuring. "How'd you sleep?"
Emma crosses the kitchen, folding into my arms as I lift her onto the counter. She's getting too big for this, but I'm not ready to stop—not when she still wants it, when she still feels small in my arms.
She shrugs, rubbing her nose. "It's weird here. I keep listening for the old creaky stairs, but they're not here."
My chest tightens. This used to be easier with Sarah, back when mornings meant two parents for comfort. My failure is a steady ache—couldn't keep things together, couldn't make a home that didn't vanish under my watch. All I can do now is make routines, make the little pieces stick.
"How about breakfast?" I ask, voice lighter than I feel. "Chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream faces?"
Her face splits into a grin—old ritual, new space. While I mix the batter (from a box, but she thinks it's magic), Emma rattles off ideas for her room. "Pink walls. Butterfly curtains. Fluffy rug?"
"We'll figure out a way to make it perfect," I promise. "Just the way you want."
She thumps Mr. Fluffkins onto the counter, and I draw pancake smiley faces with whipped cream, pretending everything is as it should be. The kitchen slowly fills with warmth—real, not just from the stove.
Midway through her second pancake, Emma glances up, voice low. "The cupcake lady is nice."
I nearly choke on my coffee. "June? Yeah. She seems nice."
Emma's undeterred, her logic the unstoppable force of a six-year-old. "She's really pretty. And she smells like cookies. Can we see her again?"
"More than likely," I say, trying not to sound thrown. "She's our neighbor, honey. We'll probably see her around."
Emma pushes pancake around her plate, then says with quiet curiosity, "Mommy never baked cookies."
Not accusatory—just fact. Still, the statement sits heavier than I expect. I think of Sarah. Meticulous, beautiful, distant. Never had time for baking days or messy counters. Never wanted this kind of chaos.
I failed her, failed Emma, failed at seeing what was coming. That wound stays open. What if June's brightness is just another sign I'll fumble happiness if I reach for it again?
Emma nudges the whipped cream smile with her finger. "Will you unpack my boxes later?"
"Absolutely," I say, pushing aside the ache, letting myself be Dad again. "We'll do it together."
She beams, syrup on her cheek, my heart tight and determined. For her, I'll make this new life stick. Even if I'm the glue holding a thousand broken pieces together.
***
It's barely mid-morning when a sharp knock sounds at the front door, quick and familiar. Only one person knocks with that much attitude. I brace for impact and open the door.