Page 5 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
“Morning, Noah,” She calls, already moving behind the counter. Siobhan’s got that sleepy appearance that babies get in the morning, her chubby fist tangled in Ava’s shirt.
Ava appears like she hasn’t slept in days, but her eyes are sharp as ever, watching me like she can see straight through the hoodie and the silence.
I nod before saying gruffly. “Figured Blaze needed the walk.”
“Mmhmm,” she says, pouring me a coffee without asking. Black. No sugar. No cream. Just like always.
I take my usual seat by the window, the wood beneath me worn smooth from years of elbows and quiet mornings like this. The mug lands on the table with a soft clink.
“Pie?” Ava asks, eyebrow arched.
I grunt, which she takes as a yes. She always does.
She comes back with a slice of cherry, golden crust, filling still warm and bleeding through the cracks like it couldn’t be contained. She sets it down, and then she just... hovers.
Siobhan coos on her hip, big eyes blinking at me. Something catches in my throat.
“Damn,” I mutter, reaching for the cup like it’s gonna save me.
Ava notices. Of course, she does.
“Rough morning?” she asks, easing into the seat across from me.
I nod. “Didn’t sleep. And when I did, it wasn’t worth it.”
She doesn’t press, but her gaze softens. Siobhan babbles, tiny fingers curled around the string of her mother’s apron. And just like that, bam, I’m sucker-punched by something I didn’t expect: longing.
For the life I almost had. For the baby, I never got to hold. For the woman whose face I can’t picture clearly anymore.
“You ever felt like the memory of someone fades faster the harder you try to hold on to it?” I ask, staring into the dark swirl of my coffee.
Ava’s smile is sad. Knowing. “Every damn day.”
She doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to.
Ava’s hand rests on my shoulder for half a breath. Long enough to say I’m not alone. Short enough that I can pretend it didn’t make my chest ache.
“You can take all the time you need,” she murmurs. She knows.
I nod because if I speak, it’ll come out broken.
I sip the coffee, letting the heat scald the tip of my tongue. It’s bitter, strong, and real.
I take a good look at Siobhan then, her wide, curious eyes locked on me. Josie used to look at me like that. Like I was her whole world. Like I could fix anything. Perhaps our child would have done the same.
She was all wild curls and bare feet and couldn’t sit still for more than a minute. Always smelled like sunscreen and lemon shampoo. She’d sneak pie at midnight, drag me outside barefoot, and laugh at the stars like they were hers.
Now, I can’t even remember the sound of her laugh.
The pie tastes like guilt. But I eat every bite.
Because that’s what’s left. The burn of coffee. The sweetness of something I don’t deserve. The ache of what used to be.
And Blaze, curled under the table, waiting for me to stop pretending I’m okay.
By the time I step out of Ava’s and start the walk back, the coffee’s settled in my gut, warm and heavy like a stone. Blaze pads beside me, tongue lolling, tail low and lazy. The morning fog’s lifted, but the heaviness hasn’t lifted. If anything, it’s settled deeper, like something’s coming. I don’t want small talk.
Don’t want to pass neighbors and fake a smile.
