The hum of the coffee maker was the only sound in the apartment as the early morning light spilled through the blinds. The faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the lingering scent of Jason’s cologne—a spicy, earthy blend that clung to the air whenever he got ready for work.

Jason stood by the front door, his firefighter turnout gear already stacked neatly in a bag by his feet. His navy-blue uniform shirt hugged his broad shoulders, and the embroidered patch on his sleeve glinted faintly in the light. He ran a hand through his dark hair, still damp from the shower, before picking up his helmet to check it for the third time that morning.

You watched him from the kitchen, a steaming mug of coffee in your hands. Despite his calm exterior, you could tell he was mentally preparing himself for the day ahead. The small furrow in his brow, the way his lips pressed together slightly—it was subtle, but you’d learned to recognize the signs.

On the counter beside you sat a paper bag with a breakfast sandwich you’d made for him, neatly wrapped and ready to go. It was a small gesture, but one Jason never failed to appreciate. You glanced at the clock on the wall and felt the familiar pang of knowing he’d be out there risking his life while you went about your day.

Jason slung his bag over his shoulder and turned to you, his sharp, greenish-blue eyes softening when they met yours. His voice, with that slight Spanish lilt you loved so much, broke the silence. “You’re gonna make me late staring at me like that, hermosa,” he teased, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.