Chapter 17 Fiona
SEVENTEEN
FIONA
I wake up with a very specific, very inconvenient realization. I am in love with Chase Callahan. Not a maybe. Not a this is a crush and I will deny it with snacks. Not a he’s hot and I’m stressed and my judgment is compromised.
Nope.
This is the full, cinematic, romcom-level oh no, this man is it realization.
It hits me while I’m staring at the ceiling in his cabin, listening to the quiet creak of wood and the distant sounds of Haven 7 waking up. Birds. Boots. Someone swearing creatively at a tree somewhere.
I turn my head and there he is, asleep on his back, one arm flung over his head like he just wrestled a bear in his dreams and won. His jaw is relaxed. His hair is doing that unfairly attractive messy thing. He looks… peaceful.
Which is rude, because I am having a life-altering emotional epiphany and he is just napping.
I lie there for a minute, cataloging evidence like I’m building a case against my own heart.
Exhibit A: He makes me feel safe.
Exhibit B: He listens when I talk.
Exhibit C: He can cook a steak that should be classified as a controlled substance.
Exhibit D: He holds me like he means it.
The jury rests. I’m doomed.
Carefully, I slide out of bed, trying not to wake him. The floor creaks anyway because this cabin is apparently built to betray me. He shifts, grunts, but doesn’t wake up.
Good. Because I have a plan. A bad plan. A romantic gesture by a woman who should not be allowed near heat or sharp objects plan. I am going to make him breakfast.
This decision is based on optimism, love, and a shocking disregard for my own track record in kitchens.
I tiptoe into the small kitchen and survey my battlefield. Okay. We have eggs. Bread. Butter. A pan. How hard can this be?
The answer is very.
I start with eggs. Because that feels… basic. Universal. Surely I cannot mess up eggs. Right?
I crack one on the edge of the bowl and somehow manage to send half the shell into the bowl and half the egg onto the counter.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We’re learning.”
I fish out shell pieces like I’m defusing a bomb and crack another one. This one goes better. Then another. Confidence grows. This is how hubris begins.
I turn on the stove. Oops, too high. I don’t realize this until the butter hits the pan and immediately goes from “pleasantly melting” to “aggressively sizzling like it has a personal vendetta.”
I panic and throw the eggs in. They fight back. There’s a sound. A smell. A splatter situation.
“Wow,” I mutter. “So this is happening.”
I grab a spatula and try to stir, but the eggs are doing that thing where they’re both liquid and somehow also stuck to the pan. I turn the heat down. Then up. Then down again. I may or may not say, “Don’t do this to me,” to a pan of eggs.
While that’s… cooking-ish, I decide to make toast. I put bread in the toaster and push the lever. Nothing happens. I push it again. Still nothing. I realize it’s not plugged in. I plug it in. I push the lever. The toaster immediately smells like it’s been holding a grudge since 1997.
There’s smoke. Ugh. Lots of smoke.
“NOPE,” I say, yanking the plug out.
The eggs are now… questionable. I stir harder. They stick more. I scrape. The pan makes a noise that feels judgmental.
I add salt.
Too much salt.
I add pepper.
Also too much pepper.
I consider adding cheese. Decide that’s a cry for help.
Somehow, in the chaos, I bump a cabinet and knock over a bag of flour that I did not know existed and absolutely did not invite into this situation.
It explodes. There is now flour on the counter.
On the floor. On me. I stare at the white dust coating my shirt like I just lost a fight with a ghost. “This is fine,” I tell the empty room.
“Everything is fine.” I turn back to the stove just in time to see a tiny flame flicker up at the edge of the pan.
“OH MY GOD.”
I grab the pan and slide it off the burner. The flame dies. The eggs survive. Barely. My heart is trying to exit my body.
Behind me, a voice says, “I go to sleep for ten minutes and you start a war.”
I yelp and spin around.
Chase is standing in the doorway, hair rumpled, T-shirt twisted, eyes sleepy and amused and very much taking in the disaster scene.
“Hi,” I say weakly.
He looks from the flour. To the counter. To the pan of suspicious eggs. To me. “Should I call the fire department or just a priest?” he asks.
“I was trying to do something nice,” I say. “The kitchen fought back.”
He steps in, picks up a towel, and gently brushes flour off my shoulder. “You look like you lost a duel with a bag of carbs.”
“I didn’t win,” I admit.
His mouth twitches. “I can see that.”
“I wanted to make you breakfast,” I say. “Because I’m… you know… grateful. And stuff.”
“And stuff,” he repeats, smiling now. “That’s my favorite category.”
I gesture helplessly. “I think the eggs are… edible? In a very loose, legal sense.”
He peers into the pan. “They’ve been through something.”
“So have I.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. The kind that starts in his chest and makes his shoulders shake a little.
And somehow, instead of being embarrassed, I feel… warm.
“Come here,” he says, taking the spatula from me and setting the pan aside. “I’ll make us real food. You can be my moral support.”
“I’m very good at moral support,” I say. “Less good at heat.”
He moves around the kitchen with easy confidence, pulling out fresh eggs, starting over, rescuing the toaster situation like a hero in a very domestic action movie.
I lean against the counter and watch him. And yeah. I’m gone. Completely, hopelessly, romcom-level gone. Because he didn’t make fun of me. Didn’t get annoyed. Didn’t sigh like I’m extra work. He just… took over and smiled like my chaos is something he’s willing to live with.
He glances over his shoulder. “You okay over there?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I just… really like it here.”
He pauses for half a second, then nods. “Me too.”
And for the first time since everything went sideways… I believe that maybe this—this messy, flour-covered, egg-fighting morning—is the start of something really, really good.