Chapter 5 - Zach

I barely made it two steps into the firehouse before Dez’s voice rang out like a siren on a caffeine bender.

“Look who’s back from his heroic hospital bedside vigil!” he crowed, grinning as he spun around in his desk chair. “Did you bring flowers, Romeo? Or was it just a single rose and a whispered promise to wait forever?”

Nas, who was pouring coffee into a mug labeled Property of No One Because Sharing is a Myth, didn’t even look up as he added, “Tell me you didn’t read to her out loud. Please. For the sake of my remaining faith in your masculinity.”

I dropped my gear bag with a thud and shot them both a withering look. “You two done?”

“Not even close,” Dez said, leaning back dramatically. “I mean, tracking her down at the hospital? That’s not firefighter protocol, man—that’s Hallmark channel behavior. You’re one guitar solo away from a made-for-TV Christmas special.”

Nas snorted. “Starring Zach Dayton as The Grumpy Softie With a Secret Heart of Gold.”

I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and tried to will away the heat crawling up the back of my neck. “I didn’t track her down. I followed up. Big difference.”

“Sure,” Dez said, drawing out the word like he didn’t believe a syllable of it. “Just happened to call every hospital within a ten-mile radius until you found the one admitting a woman who’d passed out after a fire. Total coincidence.”

“Didn’t take that many calls,” I muttered.

“Didn’t take that many calls,” Dez repeated in a falsetto, clapping like a delighted toddler. “Oh my God, I love this for you.”

I sat down heavily on the bench, scrubbing a hand through my hair. “She passed out in the ER. Her vitals tanked. She was trying to leave with the cat to go to the vet, and she almost coded.”

That sobered them both, at least for a moment.

Nas frowned. “Shit. Is she okay?”

“She’s stable now,” I said. “They’re keeping her for monitoring, but she’s awake. Coherent. Sarcastic.”

Dez tilted his head. “So… your type.”

I ignored that and leaned back against the locker wall. “She didn’t even realize how bad it got. Was just worried about the cat.”

“The cat,” Dez said slowly, as if the very concept was foreign. “The one you were hauling around in a bright purple carrier? That cat?”

“She’s pregnant,” I said

“The cat or the girl?” Dez teased.

I shot him a flat look.

Dez grinned. “I had to ask.”

Nas shook his head, sipping his coffee. “I still don’t get why you’re this invested. You pull people out of burning buildings all the time, man.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “But most don’t risk their lives for a pet. Or cling to a carrier so hard I had to pry it from their fingers.”

There was a beat of silence. Dez glanced at Nas. “He’s a goner.”

“I’m not a goner,” I snapped.

“You brought her a list of housing options and a vet’s number,” Nas pointed out.

“I’ve done that before!” I defended myself.

“For an old lady who had five chihuahuas and a collection of commemorative state spoons,” Dez said. “Not for someone you called ‘brave as hell’ while typing with your two index fingers like you were composing Shakespeare.”

“I didn’t say that.” I rumbled.

Nas pulled out his phone. “You did. Group chat. Tuesday night. 10:13 PM.”

I groaned and dropped my head back with a thunk against the metal lockers.

They were right, of course. I wasn’t usually like this. I didn’t do follow-ups, I didn’t make cheat sheets for displaced residents, and I didn’t hang around hospital rooms pretending it was part of the job description.

But something about her—about the way she’d looked at me, soot-smeared and shaking but still refusing to leave without her damn cat—it stuck with me. It got under my skin and settled there, like the faint smell of smoke days after the fire’s been put out.

“She just… mattered,” I said finally, voice low. “I don’t know why. But she did.”

Dez opened his mouth.

“Don’t,” I warned.

He shut it, but he was still smiling.

Two days later, I’d worked hard to put Ofelia and her cat out of my mind.

Jules Austin: You know she’s cute, right?
Jules Austin: Not your usual type, though. I thought you liked blondes.
Jules Austin: ...like me.

I sighed at my phone, resisting the urge to chuck it across the cab of the truck. Jules had always been like this—sharp-witted, flirtatious, and just sentimental enough to make things complicated. We’d dated a few years ago, not long after I transferred to Newark and had to rescue half a dozen cats from a condemned apartment fire. She was the vet on call at the clinic I stumbled into with three smoke-slicked kittens shoved in my jacket.

She liked that story. Liked me, for a while. And I liked her. Hell, I probably would’ve fallen for her—if she hadn’t reminded me so much of everything I’d tried to leave behind.

Jules was brilliant, bold, and confident. Blonde and ambitious, with a wardrobe that screamed Manhattan prep and a last name that sounded like it belonged on a marble plaque. She wasn’t cruel, not exactly, but she could be casually cutting in the way my mother had perfected: all smiles while slowly peeling back your skin.

We’d fizzled out after six months. Too many subtle jabs, too much pretending it wasn’t personal when it always was. She wanted the Zach my parents had hoped for. The polished one. The one who stayed in Boston.

That Zach died somewhere between graduation and the day I ran into a burning building with kittens in my shirt.

Still, Jules and I had stayed on civil terms. Enough history to keep it friendly. Enough boundaries to keep it from tipping into anything more.

Which made it even weirder when she texted out of the blue.

Jules Austin: Your cat girl came in yesterday.
Zach Dayton: Not my cat girl.
Jules Austin: Mhm. Sure.
Jules Austin: She brought in a tortie. Pregnant. Scared. Sweet. She didn’t look so great either, tbh.
Zach Dayton: She okay?
Jules Austin: Getting there. She’s tough.
Jules Austin: Anyway, we had some donated supplies—kitten-safe litter, a heating pad, and vitamins. Stuff she can use. I figured you could drop it off.
Zach Dayton: Why me?
Jules Austin: You rescued her.
Jules Austin: And you care. Don’t deny it.

And that was how I found myself outside a cheap-but-clean hotel near downtown, holding a box of Spitfire-approved supplies like some feline-themed DoorDash delivery.

I knocked once, shifted the box in my arms, and heard a crash from inside.

A second later, the door cracked open.

Ofelia blinked at me, hair in a messy bun, hoodie half-zipped, and a suspicious expression that bordered on fight-or-flight. “Zach?”

I held up the box. “Jules sent me. From the vet. Said you could use these.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You work for the vet now?”

“Nope. Just the delivery guy.” I offered a shrug. “I was on her good side today.”

Ofelia hesitated another second, then opened the door fully.

And… yeah. It looked like someone had dropped a psychological warfare simulator into the middle of a hotel room. There were open textbooks on every surface, empty water bottles on the nightstand, a knocked-over bag of litter by the bathroom, and—yes—Spitfire was perched in the sink like it was a throne.

“Sorry,” she muttered, pulling the door wider to let me in. “It’s… been a chaotic couple of days.”

I stepped inside carefully, setting the box down near a clear patch on the floor. “Looks cozy,” I said. “If you ignore the war zone vibe.”

Ofelia gave me a tired laugh and sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing her temples. “Spitfire hates the carrier, so she’s taken over the sink. She hisses if I try to move her.”

I peeked into the bathroom. “She looks comfortable.”

“She looks smug.” Ofelia snorted

“Same thing, really.” I shrugged.

That got a real smile out of her.

“I didn’t expect you to show up again,” she said after a moment, eyes on me.

“Didn’t think I would either,” I admitted. “But… Jules has a way of convincing people.”

“And you just happened to listen to her?” Ofelia asked.

I hesitated, then said honestly, “She said you looked like you could use a hand.”

Ofelia blinked at me. “She say anything else?”

“She might’ve called you cute,” I said. “Then reminded me you’re not blonde.”

Her lips twitched. “Tell her I’m flattered. And that I’m also not interested in whatever she’s trying to do.”

I chuckled, more relieved than I expected to be. “Noted.”

Spitfire hissed quietly from the sink. Somehow, that felt like a seal of approval.

The hotel wasn’t big. Just two full beds, a small desk, and a bathroom that barely qualified as such—but somehow, it looked like a hurricane had swept through with a laser focus on litter and laundry. Ofelia moved around the space like someone two steps behind her own life, rummaging through her tote bags for whatever passed as clean clothes while muttering something about nursing classes and lost notes. I couldn’t tell if she was mad at herself, the fire, or the world in general. Probably all three.

“Do you have a box?” I asked.

She blinked at me. “A box?”

“For the cat.”

Ofelia squinted. “You brought me a box.”

“No,” I said, nudging the supply box with my boot. “That’s a box full of helpful things. I mean a box that used to be for moving but is now going to be a five-star feline birthing suite.”

“Oh,” she said, rubbing at her temple. “Yeah. There’s some in the closet. I think.”

She wasn’t wrong. I found three flattened moving boxes tucked awkwardly behind a suitcase. One had a suspicious coffee stain, and another had a corner chewed off—probably Spitfire stress-nesting. I grabbed the least offensive and dragged it into the middle of the room. Ofelia watched, sitting cross-legged on the bed like she didn’t quite have the energy to move.

“You don’t have to help with that,” she said, voice a little too casual.

“Yeah,” I said, flipping the box upright. “But I want to.”

She didn’t argue after that.

I found some packing tape in the bag Jules had included—God bless her Type-A streak—and used it to reassemble the box while Ofelia rooted around for an old towel. She handed it to me after a moment, soft but fraying at the edges, and I lined the bottom while she added in a second towel from the hotel stash, muttering something about “not being charged for towels that got kitten’d.”

The whole thing took maybe fifteen minutes, but it felt longer in the way quiet things sometimes do. The kind of hush that lets thoughts creep in where banter usually lives. I tried not to stare at the circles under her eyes or the way she swayed slightly when she bent to pick up a can of cat food. She hadn’t rested. Not really. Not since the fire.

“You okay?” I asked quietly.

She glanced at me. “Yeah. Just tired.”

I didn’t push it. Just nodded and kept folding down the flaps of the box so it wouldn’t close on Spitfire if she decided actually to use it.

Ofelia sat on the edge of the bed again, twisting her hands in her lap. “I thought I’d be fine. I mean, I got out. I had insurance. My laptop survived. But it’s like every time I sit down, something starts to spin. Like my brain refuses to rest in case there’s another siren or something I forgot to do.”

“Sounds like adrenaline withdrawal,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Or possibly grad school.”

That got a tiny laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

When the box was ready and tucked beside the bed, Spitfire leaped from her porcelain throne in the bathroom and gave it a slow, skeptical inspection. She circled it once, tail swishing, then promptly jumped into my lap.

Ofelia stared.

I froze.

Spitfire kneaded twice, turned in a slow, dramatic spiral, and then settled herself directly on my thigh, rumbling with a satisfied purr like she’d just made a declaration of fealty.

“She hates everyone,” Ofelia said faintly. “She liked my ex less than the vacuum.”

I smirked, resting my hand lightly on the cat’s back. “Smart cat.”

She gave me a look, half amused and half something else. “You saying I have bad taste?”

I shrugged. “You had good taste in fire exits and feline evacuation. That counts.”

She huffed, like maybe she wanted to argue, but her shoulders dropped.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said. “I mean it. The supplies, the vet thing, all of this…”

“I know,” I said, scratching gently behind Spitfire’s ear. “But I’m glad I did.”

She looked at me like she wasn’t sure how to take that. Like she wanted to believe it, but had been let down too many times to accept it at face value. And I got that—more than she probably realized.

“She doesn’t do that,” she said.

“Then maybe she’s just got good instincts.” I shrugged

Ofelia stared at me for a long moment. Then she nodded, slow and reluctant, like someone who was starting to realize maybe they didn’t have to fight every single kindness tooth and nail.

“Thanks,” she murmured, and for the first time since I’d knocked on her door, she didn’t look like she was trying to hold everything together by herself. “For all of it.”

I didn’t say anything back. I just kept petting the cat.