Chapter 9
June
Except I can't stop thinking.
That voice from earlier, slithering down the phone line like something poisonous.
Firefighters die all the time. Don't get too attached.
It loops in my head, relentless. Every time I blink, I'm back in that moment—phone pressed to my ear, the world shrinking to nothing but those words.
My heart kicks up even now, rabbit-fast, no matter how much I try to bake the fear away.
Was it Tyler? Someone Sarah dredged up? A stranger who gets off on terrorizing people? It almost doesn't matter. The words did their job—they made it real. Adam's job isn't just brave or heroic. It's Russian roulette. Every call, every shift, every time he walks out that door.
What if it wasn't just a threat? What if someday there's a knock at my door—a chaplain, a captain, someone with that look on their face—telling me he didn't make it home?
My stomach clenches. I keep moving—flour flying, dough sticking to the counter, the overhead light casting everything in harsh relief. The house is too quiet. Too empty. The silence presses against my eardrums.
My phone buzzes across the counter, screen lighting up with Adam's name. My breath catches.
I swipe with floury fingers. "Hey."
"Saw your kitchen light on." His voice is warm, rough with exhaustion. "You okay?"
"Can't sleep." My throat feels tight. "You?"
A dry chuckle. "Same. Mind if I come over? Feels weird, both of us awake and alone like this."
Relief floods through me, almost embarrassing in its intensity. "Please."
Five minutes later, he's at my door—old sweats, faded hoodie, jaw shadowed with stubble, hair sticking up like he's been running his hands through it. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't wait for an explanation. He just pulls me into his arms and holds on.
Only then do I remember how to breathe.
We end up on the couch, legs tangled, his hand tracing slow circles on my back. I sink into him—into the solid warmth of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Vanilla and cinnamon cling to my sweatshirt. Outside, the night presses dark against the windows.
"I'm scared," I say finally. The words catch in my throat, but I force them out. "Not really of whoever called—though that was terrifying. What scares me is how real it made everything. Your job. You going out there, not knowing if you'll—" I can't finish. "It hit me tonight. Really hit me."
Adam shifts, tilting my chin up so I have to meet his eyes. His thumb traces my cheekbone, achingly gentle. "I know. I wish I could promise you I'll always come home. I wish I could tell you there's no risk, that you'll never have to worry. But I can't lie to you."
"So what do we do?"
"I can promise I'll be careful. That I'll follow protocol, that I won't take stupid risks." His voice drops lower. "And I can promise that no matter what happens on a call, I will fight like hell to make it back to you. Every single time."
My eyes sting. "That's not exactly comforting."
"I know." He presses his forehead to mine. "But it's the truth. And you deserve the truth."
We stay like that, breathing together in the dim light.
After a moment, he starts talking—really talking.
About a call last month where the floor nearly gave out beneath him.
About the split-second decisions that haunt him afterward.
About the fear he carries that nobody sees because he can't let his crew see it.
I listen. And then I talk too. About the bakery, about building something that feels so fragile. About caring for someone whose job is to run toward danger while everyone else runs away. About how terrifying it is to want something this much.
It's messy and honest and raw—no performance, no pretending. Just us, tangled up on my couch at two in the morning, trying to figure out how to do this.
Sometime later, Adam checks his phone and winces. "It's almost two-thirty. I should get back before Emma wakes up."
I glance at the clock and groan. "And my alarm goes off in about an hour."
"You're insane."
"Welcome to small business ownership." I try for a smile. "I'll just mainline coffee until I achieve transcendence."
He cups my face in both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "You're going to be exhausted."
"I'll survive."
"You're incredible, you know that?" His voice is soft, wondering. "Even running on no sleep, covered in flour, scared out of your mind—you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"Shameless flatterer," I whisper—but warmth blooms in my chest.
"Go home to your daughter."
He kisses me—slow and deep and achingly tender, like he's trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. Like he wishes he could stay.
"Text me when you get to the bakery?" he murmurs against my lips.
"I will."
I watch from the doorway as he crosses the yard, hood pulled up against the night chill, hands shoved in his pockets. The moon casting everything in silver. He turns back once, catches me watching, and the smile he gives me is tired and real and entirely mine.
I close the door and lean against it, pressing my palm to my sternum where my heart still races.
Then I drag myself upstairs and turn the shower on as hot as I can stand it. Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror. I stand under the spray and let the heat work into my muscles.
Today is going to be brutal. Impossible, maybe.
But somehow, I'm not facing it alone anymore.
And that changes everything.
***
By 4:00 a.m., the world feels thin and brittle, like glass about to crack.
The cold seeps straight through my coat, my jeans, down to my bones.
I fumble with the keys at the back door of The Sweet Spot, metal jingling in my shaking hands.
No dawn yet—just darkness and streetlights and me, running on caffeine and sheer stubbornness.
I'm trying to prove something. To myself, maybe. That I'm not as fragile as last night made me feel.
Inside, I flip on the lights and the familiar space materializes around me—stainless steel, marble counters, the lingering scent of baked goods. I tie on my apron and get to work.
Today's doughs feel heavier in my hands. Denser, somehow. Or maybe that's just exhaustion pulling at my arms. I fight the urge to check my phone. Adam hasn't texted me back yet.
Rational-me knows he's probably catching a bit more sleep, or already out on a call. Irrational-me keeps hearing that voice on the phone, imagining worst-case scenarios until my hands shake and I have to stop kneading and just breathe.
I check my phone anyway. Nothing.
Focus. Work. Keep moving.
***
By seven, I've got trays of cinnamon rolls cooling, three dozen cupcakes frosted, scones ready for the oven. I wipe my hands on my apron and head to the front to unlock the doors—and freeze.
There's a line.
A long line stretching down the sidewalk. At least thirty people, maybe more. At seven in the morning.
My first paranoid thought is that something's wrong—a gas leak, a crime scene, some disaster drawing a crowd. But then a woman near the front spots me through the glass and waves her phone excitedly.
Oh God. Not again.
I unlock the door and step back as people surge inside, a wave of energy and excitement that makes the air crackle.
It's bedlam. Beautiful, bewildering bedlam.
Orders come rapid-fire. "A dozen cinnamon rolls—no, make it two dozen." "Four of those cupcakes, and do you have more of the lemon scones?" "I'll take whatever's left of those chocolate croissants."
A woman shoves her phone in my face, my Instagram page pulled up on the screen. "It's really you! I've been following since I saw Mia's post. Your story about the pie—I cried."
I blink at her, dazed. "I—thank you?"
She orders six of everything.
Mia's post is still blowing up. That explains it.
I lean against the display case, head spinning. My apron's already smeared with frosting, hair wild. The register keeps dinging. The line doesn't shrink.
And then—salvation.
Riley comes barreling through the back door at 7:15, backpack flying off her shoulder, eyes wide. "What the hell, boss? Either there's a celebrity in here or someone's filming a true crime reenactment in the bathroom."
"A famous food blogger posted about us while you were away. This must be the second wave." I shove a tray of unfilled éclair shells at her. "Welcome back. I'm so glad you're here I could cry."
"Don't you dare—you'll ruin the vibe." But she's grinning as she ties on an apron and dives in.
We fall into rhythm—me on register and packaging, Riley on coffee and restocking. She's sharp and efficient, reading the crowd, anticipating orders. For a few minutes, buried in the work, I almost forget how shaky I feel.
Almost.
Between customers, Riley leans over and flips her phone toward me. "Did you see this?"
I glance down. My Instagram page. The follower count makes my stomach flip.
"Seventy-five thousand," Riley says, eyes enormous. "June. You're trending. Mia's post is everywhere—people are stitching it, sharing it, commenting like crazy."
I stare at the number like it's written in a foreign language. "That can't be right."
"Oh, and—" She points to the bakery phone, hits play on a voicemail, puts it on speaker.
"Hi, this message is for June Callahan. This is Natalie Cortez from Food and Flavor Magazine. We'd love to discuss a potential feature on The Sweet Spot and your journey as a small business owner. Please give us a call back at your earliest convenience."
The message ends. Riley's grinning at me like I just won the lottery.
"Food and Flavor?" I repeat, voice flat. If I say it without inflection, maybe I won't get my hopes up.
"Boss, this is huge." Riley squeezes my shoulders.
I should be excited. I am excited—somewhere under the exhaustion. But my eyes keep drifting to the door, and my hand keeps reaching for my phone.
Adam still hasn't replied.
He's fine. He's just busy. He's fine.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and force a smile for the next customer.