Chapter 6 - Ofelia

The idea came out of my mouth before I had time to second-guess it. Zach was still sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, and Spitfire fully sprawled across his lap like she was already claiming him in her future estate planning. I was watching them—watching him, really—and something about the way his fingers moved gently behind her ear, like she wasn’t an unpredictable, hormonal time bomb in fur, made me blurt, “Do you want to grab coffee or something?”

He glanced up, surprised. "Coffee?"

"Yeah," I said, pretending I hadn't just freaked myself out. "Thanks. For, you know, all that."

Zach blinked, then smiled slowly. "You sure?"

"I'm sure." I wasn't. "I mean, unless you're busy."

"No," he answered, shifting as if to work out a crick in his back. "Not busy."

Spitfire let out a dramatic yawn and rolled onto her side, nibbling on his thigh softly, as a seal claims a beloved rock. He delayed a response, looking down at her, then upwards at me. "You'll owe Her Majesty an apology, however."

I snorted. "She'll last twenty minutes on her own. Barely."

He stood, carefully not to bump the queen in question, and put her down on the bed, where she rewarded him with a final flick of her tail and a slow, appreciative but also slightly aggrieved blink.

I grabbed my jacket from the chair and caught a glimpse of myself staring back at me in the desk's mirror. I was still half-zombie and all, but at least I no longer smelled of the hospital or like a fire. I dug my wallet out of the side pocket of my tote and double-checked the cash situation while Zach wasn’t looking.

Three singles. A five. One crumpled receipt from a taco truck I couldn’t afford last week.

I winced.

The hotel had required a deposit, and I’d needed to grab food, some cat litter, and emergency toiletries in a panic. I hadn’t even thought about the vet bill yet. The coffee idea had felt casual—an easy thank you—but now my brain was running numbers like a stressed-out accountant. If I used my card, that would cut too close to my next rent installment for school housing, and I wasn’t sure when the insurance check would clear.

Still, I’d invited him. I wanted to treat him. That mattered.

I slipped the card into the wallet nonetheless and followed Zach out, shoving the bills into my pocket as if maybe I might be able to Jedi mind-trick the world into a seven-dollar date becoming a five.

We walked across the street quietly to the café on the other side. It was unassuming — a humble corner café with creaky tables, a chalkboard menu, and the kind of smell that eased the shoulders: sugar, coffee, and a subtle whiff of burnt espresso, lending the place authenticity.

“Go sit,” I told Zach as we stepped inside. “I’ve got this.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive,” I lied. It wasn’t like I was buying a steak dinner—just coffee.

I approached the counter and ordered a large hot chocolate for myself and a black coffee for him—because, come on, firefighter, it was a safe bet. I didn’t ask what he wanted because that would have made it a real date, and I was already teetering on the edge of emotional budget ruin.

The barista tapped a few keys. “That’ll be $10.64.”

I froze.

Ten sixty-four.

I stared at her. Then, at the register. Then, at my wallet, where I’d optimistically tucked three crumpled ones and a five into the billfold like some broke little squirrel pretending fall wasn’t coming.

Eight dollars. And some coins in the side pocket, maybe. Definitely not ten sixty-four.

I hesitated.

Just long enough for Zach to appear at my elbow, voice low. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said too fast. “I’ve got it.”

Still, my hands were slower than my words, pulling the singles out individually, spreading them flat as if somehow this would make the singles turn into tens. I sensed him looking at me, looking at the hesitation, looking at the palm of my hand that was to have been stocked with the rest of the money.

He laid down a ten on the counter silently.

“Zach—” I started to protest.

“It’s fine.” He cut me off.

“No, I said I’ve got it.” I stubbornly shook my head.

“You’ve got eight bucks,” he said gently, not unkindly. “I’m just covering the coffee tax.”

“That’s not a real thing,” I grumbled.

“It is now.” He shrugged with a smile.

I began to protest again, my pride searing with a wound that would not heal. But he just looked at me, not condescending, not sympathetic, but firmly. Like someone who has been there, too. Like someone who has experienced the reach of every dollar and is aware that no matter how far you reach, you're going to fall short.

I bristled at the argument and deposited my money on the counter, not realizing just how red my face was. "Fine," I said. "You're going to be my caffeine co-sponsor."

He smiled. "Delighted to invest."

The barista handed us the drinks, and Zach added a few bills he had pulled out of his wallet to the tip cup. We stepped away, and I let the first sip of the cocoa burn the top of my tongue—because it was, so far, my own—a triumph, if not a solitary one.

Next time, I told myself.

And, for the first time recently, I found myself hoping that there might be a next time.

We found a bench tucked behind a row of green pots at the edge of the café's patio, where the sound receded into something distant and random. There was only the soft whistle of the breeze, the occasional fighting birds in a bush near at hand, and a clinking sound of ceramics from those more caffeinated than we were.

Zach sipped his coffee quietly, not seeming to be in a rush to replace the emptiness. And to my amazement, I found I did not have that urge to do so myself. The quiet sat between us like something alive but friendly, like Spitfire on a windowsill—watchful, but not in your way.

I wrapped my hands around my cup. The heat bit into my palms in a way that felt grounding. “I used to think I’d have it all figured out by now,” I said eventually, without really planning to. “Grad school, a real apartment, maybe even a cat that listened.”

Zach chuckled. “Spitfire seems like she listens. She just doesn’t care.”

“Exactly,” I muttered, smiling despite myself.

He gave me a sidelong look. “So… psychology?”

I nodded, brushing a thumb along the rim of my cup. “I’ve wanted to be a psychologist since I was a kid. I guess I was the emotional sponge of the family. Always the one trying to make everyone else feel better. So it just… made sense. But lately, it feels like this massive weight. Like I’m not allowed to crack under the pressure because helping people is supposed to be the thing I’m good at.”

Zach didn’t rush to respond. He just listened. Which somehow made the words keep coming.

“I’m on track for my PhD,” I added, a little too defensively. “But it’s been harder lately. After the fire, all my notes, my schedule, everything’s scrambled. I feel behind. And I hate that feeling.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

I glanced over. “You do?”

“More than you’d think,” he said. “I’m from Boston. Grew up in the silver spoon life—private schools, country club birthdays, the whole thing. My parents had this whole blueprint for my life: law school, wife from the right family, maybe politics someday.”

I blinked. “Wow. And now you run into burning buildings?”

He grinned. “Exactly. I wanted something real. Something that wasn’t about who you knew or what your name could buy, so I left. Came here. Joined the fire department. They didn’t exactly throw me a going-away party.”

“That’s… bold,” I said.

It was bold that he forged his own path, but sad that his family couldn’t support it.

“It was necessary,” he said, leaning back. “Some of the best people I’ve ever met are here. Dez, Nas. Even Jules, even though we weren’t right together.”

I tilted my head. “You said Boston. I know a few people from there. Kind of. Through my sister’s fiancé, Clay. I think some of his cousins are still in that area?”

Zach looked at me, curious. “What’s his last name?”

“Nikolaidis. But his egg donor, as he put it, is a Frost. I’ve met some of them. Darius, Elijah, Forrest… and their wife Riko. Though I doubt you’d know them. They’re kind of private.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Are you kidding? I went to Ravenwood with them.”

My jaw nearly dropped. “Wait—seriously?”

“Yup. Played basketball with Forrest. I was close with Darius and Elijah, too, at least back then. Riko came in during senior year. We didn’t hang out as much, but she was sharp. Quiet at first, but definitely the glue that held those three together. They called the brothers the Princes of Ravenwood.”

“That tracks,” I muttered. “They’re… intense.”

Zach laughed. “Yeah. Most people couldn’t tell them apart, but once you did, they were easy to like. Loyal. Competitive as hell. I always felt like they were headed somewhere bigger.”

I sipped my drink, trying to wrap my head around how small the world apparently was. “It’s weird that you know them.”

“Small world,” he said, mirroring my thought. “But a good one.”

For a second, I didn’t say anything. Just sat there, caught between the ache of exhaustion and the strange lightness that came from talking to someone who somehow got it. All of it. The pressure. The expectations.

I glanced at Zach again, and he smiled—soft, genuine, nothing like the forced politeness of people who only wanted you to feel better so you’d stop being inconvenient. And maybe that was why it felt easy. Like for once, I didn’t have to be strong or witty or composed.

I could just… be.

We’d barely made it halfway back when my phone rang. I fumbled for it with one hand, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid.

“Hello?”

“Miss Rosario? This is the Midtown Lodge front desk. We’ve had several complaints… noise coming from your room.”

I blinked. “Noise?”

“Guests reported wailing. One said it sounded like a banshee. Another used the phrase ‘possessed coyote.’”

My stomach dropped. “It’s a cat.”

“Regardless,” the clerk said, clearly over it. “Please return and address the situation.”

I hung up and turned to Zach. “Apparently, Spitfire’s become a hotel-wide crisis.”

He raised a brow. “She okay?”

“I don’t know,” I said, already picking up the pace. “They said she’s howling.”

We reached the room, and I shoved the keycard into the slot with shaky fingers. The second the door opened, the sound hit me. Low, hoarse cries echoed from the corner. Not the usual dramatics—this was guttural. Real.

Spitfire was curled in the nesting box we’d built hours earlier, panting, her sides heaving. Her tail twitched violently with each whimper.

“Oh my god,” I breathed. “She’s in labor.”

“Didn’t you say she wasn’t due yet?” Zach asked, crouching beside me.

“She wasn’t. I mean—I didn’t think. She’s early. I don’t know.” I said.

She let out a sharper yowl, and my heart lurched. I began to reach out to her, then caught myself. Was I to help? Or just be?

"I've never done this," I whispered. I don't know how to help her.

Zach stood by my side, steady and unmoving, while my mind was racing. I wrestled with my phone, attempting to search on G****e what to do if your pregnant cat gives birth unexpectedly in the hotel room that you're struggling to pay for.

Spitfire tossed her head, looking at me, judging, of course. For even while bearing children, she was particular.

Zach gently took the phone out of my trembling hand. "I'll phone Jules," he told me. "You stay with her."

I nodded silently. My knees ached against the floor, my chest constricted, and panic was a steady white noise buzzing in my ears. But I did not move.  I stayed right there, hand near the edge of her box, promising her the only thing I could: to be here.