I’m still surviving, Max. I’m still here.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t check it. Not yet.
Instead, I slide the Diet Coke between my knees and keep sketching.
Each feather I shade in feels like an anchor. Every flame another piece of armor. I draw until the noise in my chest dulls down into something manageable. Something human.
Then I sit back and take a long, slow sip.
The soda’s warm now, syrupy in my mouth. The sun’s moved, light flickering through the trees near the fountain. My hand aches.
But the sketch is good.
Really good.
It won’t be one of the murals—I don’t know if I can make this personal here, not yet—but it reminds me that Iaman artist. That I still have something to say.
The breeze picks up, tugging at the loose strands of my ponytail. I tuck them behind my ear and glance toward the bakery. No more Alpha encounters, thanks. I’m at capacity for today.
I slip the sketchbook into my tote and stare at the mural location across the street. The wall’s still blank. Still waiting.
And I’ll be ready soon.
Just… not today.
I decide I’ll make something for dinner.
It’s not even that I’m hungry—just tired of feeling like I’m floating. Like I’m stuck in some liminal space between lives, between who I was and who I’m supposed to become.
The grocery store smells like detergent and ripe bananas. It’s bigger than I expected for a small town, but not in a corporate way—more like someone hand-stocked the shelves with care.
I wander toward the fish section, basket in hand, the metal handle creaking faintly as I grip it tighter than I need to.
The display case is pristine. Rows of fillets laid on crushed ice. Labels in neat script read “Marshall’s cod,” “Marshall’s snapper,” “Marshall’s flounder.” Whoever Marshall is, he’s apparently got a monopoly on the local fish market.
I’m squinting at the snapper, trying to remember if I like it, when the scent hits me first.
Smoke and pine. The sharp tang of fire gear. Heat and sweat and the faint bite of engine oil.
And then he walks past me.
My breath stutters. I know that gait. That weighty, ground-eating stride. I know that suit. The fire-resistant jacket hanging open just enough to show the black shirt underneath. The thick boots. The gloves tucked into his waistband.
My pulse quickens.No. No, no, no.Not again. Not here.
He stops.
My stomach drops.
I glance sideways just as he bends to grab a steak from the cooler, and my eyes fall on the tag stitched to his jacket—Cpt. Ashford.
It’s him. The one from the mural site. The one with the dark, messy hair and the too-tall build and the presence that hits like a sledgehammer to the gut.
I freeze.
Of course it’s him. Because why not? Why wouldn’t the man who stopped my lungs just by standing nearby be a fire captain? Of fucking course.
He straightens, his gaze catching mine, and my legs lock in place.
