Page 13 of Christmas with the Firefighter
Even as we go through the motions of polite breakfast conversation, I can feel the weight of everything unsaid. The way her fingers wrap around her coffee mug like she needs something to hold onto. The way she keeps glancing at me when she thinks I'm not looking. The way I keep checking my watch, not because I'm eager to leave but because I'm terrified of how much I want to stay.
"So," she says eventually, stirring cream into her coffee with deliberate focus. "Do you always work Christmas Eve?"
"Usually." I take a sip of coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Someone has to be on duty, and I don't have family to rush home to."
"No family at all?"
"Parents are in Florida. Sister's in Seattle. We do the obligatory holiday phone calls, but we're not particularly close." I check my watch again, a nervous habit that I can't seem to shake. "What about you? Any Christmas plans besides the cabin?"
She shakes her head. "Just me and some good books. Maybe a long hike if the weather holds."
"Sounds peaceful."
"That's the idea."
The conversation feels stilted, like we're both trying to avoid the obvious questions hanging between us. What happens next? What was this? Are we going to pretend it never happened?
I want to ask all of those things and more, but every time I open my mouth, some instinct for self-preservation kicks in and I find myself talking about the weather or asking if she needs more coffee.
"This is good," she says, cutting her pancakes into precise and tiny squares. "The pancakes, I mean."
"They’ve been perfecting that recipe for years," I say, then immediately check my watch again. "Speaking of which, I should probably—"
"Of course." Miranda's voice is neutral, but I catch the flash of hurt in her eyes before she looks away. "You have to get to work."
"Yeah. Shift change is at eight, and Captain gets cranky when people are late."
It's not entirely a lie, but it's not entirely true either. He would understand if I was a few minutes late, especially given thecircumstances. But sitting here, watching Miranda methodically eat her breakfast while maintaining small talk, feels like torture.
Because I want more. Want to know what she's thinking, want to ask if she felt the same connection I did, want to suggest that maybe she doesn't have to go to that cabin alone.
But every time I consider saying any of that out loud, I remember Sophie's note, remember the empty house and the engagement ring left on the kitchen counter, remember what happens when you let yourself believe in fairy tales.
Another glance at my watch. Another moment of wanting to say something real and choosing safety instead.
"I should probably let you finish in peace," I say finally, standing and pulling my wallet from my back pocket. "Let me get this."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I leave enough cash on the table to cover both meals plus a generous tip, then stand there awkwardly, not sure how to end this. A handshake seems too formal, a hug too intimate, a kiss too dangerous.
In the end, I settle for touching her shoulder briefly, a gesture that could be friendly or something more, depending on how you interpret it.
"Have a safe trip to the cabin," I say, and immediately hate how formal I sound.
"Thank you." She looks up at me with an expression I can't quite read. "And thank you for... everything. Last night was really..." She trails off, seems to reconsider whatever she was going to say. "It was really nice meeting you."
Nice.
Like we shared coffee and pleasant conversation instead of the kind of intimacy that leaves you feeling turned inside out.
"Yeah," I say, because apparently I'm as bad at this as she is. "Really nice meeting you too."
Chapter 5 – Miranda
I pack like I'm fleeing a crime scene.
Clothes get shoved into my duffel bag without folding, toiletries swept from the bathroom counter into their travel case with shaking hands. My laptop goes into its sleeve, presentation notes scattered and gathered haphazardly, and I'm moving so fast I knock over the small Christmas tree on the dresser.
