Chapter 2 - Max

Something's off with Emma.

I notice it the moment she opens her door, and it's still nagging at me as we walk to my truck. She's quieter than usual, her smile not quite reaching those beautiful blue eyes I fell for from the first moment I saw her.

I open the passenger door for her, catching a whiff of her vanilla perfume as she climbs in. My hand automatically reaches for hers once I'm in the driver's seat, but she's fidgeting with her purse, avoiding my gaze.

"You okay?" I ask, starting the engine.

"Just nervous about lunch." Her voice sounds strained. "You know how family can be."

I do know. After fifteen years in the military and now five as a firefighter, I've learned that family comes in many forms. But something tells me there's more to her anxiety than just introducing me to her relatives.

The drive to Sara's is silent, which is unusual for us. Usually, Emma can't stop talking, her hands moving animatedly as she tells me about her day or a story about her students.

It's one of the things I love about her—how she can light up a room just by being in it.

Love. Yeah, I'm in deep. Have been since Ashton introduced us at that Christmas Festival last month. One look at her laughing at something Autumn said, and I was done for. Didn't matter that I'd sworn off serious relationships after what happened in Afghanistan. Emma changed everything.

We pull into Sara's parking lot, and I catch her dabbing at her eyes in the reflection of her compact mirror.

"Emma—" I start, but she's already opening her door.

"I'm starving," she announces, a little too brightly. "Let's get inside before the morning rush."

I frown as I watch her practically race to the entrance. Something's definitely wrong. The woman who usually steals bites of my breakfast and playfully argues about sharing her bacon is practically power-walking away from me.

The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and Sara herself waves from behind the counter.

"Well, if it isn't one of my favorite couples! The usual?"

Emma's face goes pale. Actually pale. Like she might be sick.

"I'll have whatever she's having," I tell Sara, my eyes fixed on Emma. "And maybe some water."

What the hell is going on with my girl?

We slide into our usual booth, and Emma immediately grabs the menu, holding it like a shield between us. I've seen her handle her first graders with more composure than she's showing right now.

"Since when do you need a menu?" I reach across the table, gently lowering the laminated barrier. "You've ordered the same thing every Sunday for the past month."

She jumps when my fingers brush hers. Actually jumps.

"I thought I might try something different today." Her voice wobbles. "Maybe no coffee."

No coffee? Emma without her morning caffeine is like a fire truck without water – it just doesn't happen. I lean back, studying her face. The shadows under her eyes are new, and there's a slight tremor in her hands as she fiddles with her napkin.

"Spill it," I tell her.

Her eyes widen. "What?"

"Something's wrong. And don't tell me it's just family nerves." I've dealt with enough crises to know when someone's hiding something. "You're shaking. You look like you might throw up, and now you're turning down coffee?"

Sara appears with our water glasses, and Emma practically lunges for hers, taking long gulps like she's been lost in the desert.

"Ready to order?" Sara asks, pen poised.

"Just toast," Emma mumbles. "Plain toast."

What the actual hell?

"And your usual breakfast special?" Sara turns to me, but I can't take my eyes off Emma.

"Yeah, sure." I wait until Sara leaves before leaning forward. "Talk to me, sweetheart. Whatever it is, we can handle it."

She makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Can we?"

"Try me." I reach for her hand again, and this time she lets me take it. "I've run into burning buildings, survived three tours in Afghanistan, and once had to rescue a cat from the chief's hat. I think I can handle whatever's bothering you."

Her free hand drifts to her purse, and for a moment, I think she's actually going to tell me. But then Sara returns with Emma's toast, and the moment shatters like glass.

"We should eat," Emma says, pulling her hand away. "We don't want to be late for lunch with my family."

I watch her pick at her toast, my own appetite disappearing.

The silence stretches between us like a rubber band ready to snap. I shovel eggs into my mouth without tasting them, watching Emma reduce her toast to crumbs on her plate. Every few minutes, she glances at her purse like it might explode.

"You know," I try again, "my shift doesn't start until tomorrow morning. After lunch with your family, we could—"

"We should get going." She cuts me off, pushing her barely-touched plate away. "It's almost time, and Aunt Linda will have a fit if we're late."

I signal Sara for the check, noting how Emma's hands shake as she reaches for her wallet.

"I got this."

"Max—"

"Let me take care of you." The words come out more intensely than I intended.

Because that's all I want to do – take care of her, make her smile, figure out what's got her looking like she's facing a firing squad instead of a family lunch.

She stares at me for a long moment, and I swear I see tears in her eyes before she blinks them away.

The drive to her family's place looms ahead of us—ninety minutes of this strange tension. I drop a few bills on the table and stand, offering her my hand.

"Ready?"

She nods but doesn't take my hand. Instead, she clutches that damn purse to her chest like it's her only lifeline.

The walk back to my truck feels longer than any training march I ever did in the military. My mind races through every possibility, each worse than the last.

Maybe she's realized this whole fake dating thing is a mistake. Maybe she's met someone else. Maybe I pushed too hard, too fast.

Hell, I practically invited myself to this family lunch. When she mentioned needing a date to get her aunt off her back, I jumped at the chance before she could ask anyone else. Subtle as a five-alarm fire.

I open her door, but she doesn't even seem to notice, lost in whatever's eating at her. The purse stays clutched to her chest as she climbs in like she's protecting something precious or hiding something.

When I start the engine, I can't help but remember how different things were just yesterday. She laughed when I showed up at her classroom with lunch, how naturally her hand fit in mine, and how right it felt when she fell asleep against my shoulder during movie night.

But maybe that's just it. Maybe it felt right to me, but not to her.

"Emma," I start, pulling onto the highway. "If you want to call this off—"

"No!" She says it so sharply I nearly swerve into the next lane. "I mean, no. Please. I want you there."

I glance at her, trying to read her expression, but she's staring straight ahead, knuckles white around that purse.

"You sure? Because if this is moving too fast—"

"It's not that," she whispers, and for a second, I think she might actually tell me what's wrong. But then she just closes her eyes and leans back against the headrest. "I'm just tired."

Right. And I'm just a part-time volunteer at the station.

Something's coming. Something big. I can feel it in my gut, the same way I can sense when a fire's about to flash over. I just hope whatever it is doesn't burn us both.