It changes his entire face.
The hard lines soften. His eyes warm. He looks younger, lighter, like this version of him has been hidden somewhere beneath all that control.
My heart trips over itself.
This could be normal.
That is the dangerous thought.
I could sit at this table while Lance ruins breakfast. I could fill his empty refrigerator with ridiculous magnets and leave mail on the counter. He could laugh at something foolish I say, and I could spend the rest of the day trying to make him do it again.
The picture forms too easily.
I lower my gaze to the eggs.
Lance clears his throat and reaches for his coffee.
The moment folds itself away, but it does not disappear.
An hour later, we meet the Fire Chief outside Grandma’s Garden.
The shop looks smaller behind the yellow tape.
The front windows are gone, leaving dark openings where Grandma once painted tiny white vines around the glass. Black streaks climb the pale siding. Water seeps beneath the door and carries petals into the gutter, a bruised stream of pink, white, and yellow.
Pieces of everything Grandma and I built together drift toward the drain.
My feet stop.
Lance’s palm settles against my lower back, warm and steady through his sweatshirt.
“Breathe,” he says.
I pull air into my lungs.
It tastes like wet ash.
Zain approaches with damp hair and black coffee in one hand. He looks like he has been awake for days and would deny being tired under oath.
“Morning, Cora.”
“Chief.”
“Zain is fine.”
I nod, though calling him Zain feels like addressing a judge by his first name.
He looks toward the building.
“The fire investigator confirmed the point of origin. Wiring behind the cooler overheated inside the wall. Unplugging the unit wouldn’t have stopped it.”
I turn toward Lance.
Some of the guilt has left his face. A little remains, stubborn as my rosemary.
“Can it be saved?” I ask.
“A contractor needs to inspect the roof and front supports. The rear rooms held. You’re looking at smoke remediation, new wiring, structural repairs, and a lot of cleanup.”