Page 9 of Burning Obsession

The second I step inside my apartment I tug the keys from the lock, shove the door closed with my shoulder, and throw the deadbolt. The metallic click echoes through the quiet. I place the keys on the hook by the door, exactly where they belong. Same place every day. It's one of those little habits that keeps life organized when everything else gets messy.

Home.

Call me a weirdo. I’m twenty-eight, but I love the quiet comfort of my apartment. The wails of a baby crying or spouse greeting me with a kiss is what I should be yearning for at my age. I know that. And in a way, I still want those things. But my career doesn’t leave much time for a social life and well, finding a man who wants to adopt or hire a surrogate is hard to find. Either that, or I’m not looking hard enough. That could be my problem.

I’m too set in my ways.

But…there are times when I come home that I wish there was someone waiting for me. A best friend and lover who would wrap his arms around me and tell me it’s okay that I had a bad day. Then we would watch some corny ass shark movie until we’re both crying from laughter.

Letting out a sigh, with my coffee in one hand and the paper bag in the other, I drag myself across the living room and let gravity do the rest when I reach the couch. It catches the brunt of my weight with its pillowy soft cushions as I drop down onto it like a stone.

"Jesus..."

I lean back, my head drifting down to glance at the coffee still clutched in my grasp. Not a single drop has managed to escape.

"Thank God for lids."

I lift the cup just enough to inspect it before letting out a quiet laugh. It's lukewarm now, nowhere near the scalding temperature it'd been when Fifi delivered, but imagine if it was. Dumping half a cup into my lap would've ended with me taking an embarrassing trip to urgent care.

Can you imagine?

"Hi, Doc. Yeah... I spilled coffee on myself because I was carrying pastries from my secret admirer."

I'd rather wrestle a drunk six-foot-four linebacker. And let’s be real, we know I’m not winning that fight. I’ll give it a valiant effort, don’t get me wrong. But winning? Not happening unless he can’t stand up.

But there’s something worse than having to explain it to an urgent care doctor.

What’s that you ask?

Well, how about the burn is so bad I can’t drive myself and I have to call 9-1-1. I can already hear Hayes if they send the firehouse. Lord, I'd never live it down. I’d have a request in for a transfer quicker than you can say ‘What’. Forget that I’ve been at the same house since I was a probie, eight years ago.

I set the cup on my knee and stare at the paper bag resting beside me on the cushion. Conflicted. Inside sits the pastry. Firefighter Fuel. The smell alone calls to me, making my stomach growl with anticipation, a reminder that someone out there seems to know me better than any boyfriend could. If I had one, I mean. I just wish I knew who this secret admirer is.

Part of me wants to march straight into the kitchen and dump the whole thing into the trash. A firm stance on the ‘you don’t have to do this’.

I don't ask for these items to be left for me. Hell, I don't even want them. Not like this.

Being recognized because of my job is one thing. It comes with the territory. People stop me in grocery stores. Shake my hand. Thank me when they recognize me as being the one that rescued them or a family member. Sometimes they just want to thank us for what we do.

That's different.

Those moments are about what happened and how the person is feeling. It’s not something that happens all the time but when it does, it’s nice. But we see them. They make themselves known to us.

This, these gifts left anonymously for four months now, is different. It’s bordering on the line of stalkerish. Especially when they know the exact breakfast pastry I like and the bakery it comes from. Not to mention my coffee is made with the right cream to vanilla and caramel flavoring ratio.

I've spent my entire career running toward disasters while everyone else runs away. Pulling people out of burning buildings. Crawling through smoke. Performing life-saving measures. Sometimes having to tell the loved ones that there was nothing more we could do. I'm used to being the rescuer. Not the person someone watches and admires from the shadows. It creeps me out. Being the object of someone’s obsession and being placed on whatever weird kind of pedestal they want to place me on makes my skin crawl.

If it’s hero worship that’s causing them to do it then I wish they’d find another hero. One who actually wants the attention. Or at least, they could come forward, thank me, and we could both move on.

I rub a hand over my face.

"I wish you'd just stop." The words disappear into the empty apartment with no one there to hear them. But saying them somehow makes me feel better at the moment.

My gaze drifts back to the bag. I shouldn't eat it. I know I shouldn't. Throwing it away would be the smarter move. One that, if my admirer could see, would show that I no longer want the attention of gifts. My stance on the matter being out for all to see.

But fuck if it doesn’t smell incredible. I swear I can smell the cinnamon and cream cheese frosting through the bag.

My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. Yet again. It’s a persistent reminder that it wants to eat the snack and definitely not feed it to the trash. My body’s a fucking traitor.