Fires We Feed

Unpack

Avery burst out laughing. “Wow, it’s been ages since I heard this! Way to tap onto the nostalgia,” she teased, grinning widely.

The speakers blared out the third song on my playlist. “That’s Not My Name” by the Ting Tings.

I rolled my eyes and chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I like to keep things interesting,” I said, feeling a little sheepish. “That's my 'stick it to the man' anthem.”

"I never thought of it that way."

"Maybe you should. Well you were too young when that first came out while I was in my rebellious stage."

"You're such a millennial."

"Hey that's a generation that fought tooth and nail for a work life balance. And we're digital pioneers. We walked so you guys could run."

"I respect that." She said with a smile on her face as if amused by my defensiveness. "Except for the avocado toast that's just disgusting. Sorry."

I chuckled. "f**k avocado toast."

----

Avery insisted on driving me home. I didn’t argue. I was intrigued by how she carried herself. I wanted to know more.

Streetlights streaked across the windshield, slicing the darkness into pieces. I leaned my head against the window, watching them blur together.

My apartment wasn’t far. Thirty minutes, maybe. But it felt longer tonight. When we finally pulled into the lot, I mumbled a thank-you and reached for the door handle, opening it.

Two months in, and it still looks temporary. A sofa sits against the far wall — too plain to be stylish, too comfortable to replace. A single lamp leans beside it, throwing a warm cone of light across the bare floorboards. A couple of boxes linger by the window, unopened, like stubborn reminders of the life I haven’t fully unpacked.

The kitchen is small but spotless — narrow counters, clean white tile, a faint scent of soap. There’s not much inside: one pot, a few dishes, a half-empty bag of coffee. The kind of setup that suggests someone still figuring out how to stay.

Down the hall, the bedroom is just a mattress and a folded blanket. The window looks out onto the street below — quiet at night except for the sound of tires on wet pavement or a dog barking somewhere out of sight. The bathroom, at least, feels finished. New fixtures, a tidy mirror, the soft hum of the vent that runs too long after the light is off.

I told myself I would make this place feel more like home when things slow down, but they never really did. Hospitals don’t sleep. Nights blur into mornings, and mornings into shifts that stretch longer than they should.

The apartment may be bare, but it’s mine, and for now, that feels like home.

“I’m just gonna grab some water,” I said, heading for the kitchen. My mouth tasted like whiskey and regret. "You want one?"

"Yes, thank you," she answered preoccupied by the art pieces on the wall I managed to hang. "So you're new in town?"

"No. Before this I stayed five blocks away from here."

"Ah. I bet we've seen each other before."

"I don't doubt it." It was just ridiculous how it turned out. "How about you? You live around here?"

"I moved here since I was 17. I don't know. I got bored at home and wanted to live on my own. My own sweat and tears."

I filled two glasses of water and returned to the living room. I handed her the glass as I took a sip.

"Oh. Were your parents tough on you?"

"If tough means being spoon fed then they were. I don't want any hand outs. I want to do something that I want to be proud of." She paused. "That sounded stupid."

"Not at all. I get it." I gave her a small smile.

Her phone buzzed. She shot off a quick text, then turned it off. Her focus landed on the open boxes.

"Wait… you’re a doctor?" She said as she scanned through my belongings, accolades and training certificates fitted in a small box with the rest of my stuff.

"Yep. Shocking, isn’t it?" I plopped on my sofa, tired and sleepy.

"Drunk and sarcastic. Screams poor bedside manner, Dr. Hart."

"I'm not usually like this. I'm responsible. And kind..."

Lying on my back with my eyes closed, I feel the sofa shift right next to me.

"...and generous. I care for my patients. I'm a great cook. Why was I treated like that? One lie after the other." I wiped the tear that escaped, nearly forgot I had an audience.

The silence was deafening. I forced my heavy eyes to open.

My eyes went stright to the woman who were inches away from me. Why was she that gorgeous?

Blue eyes fixed on me. Serious, and searching. Her scent hung between sweet and spicy. Her lips full. Cheeks flushed.

Am I losing it? Everything’s wrong. That’s the woman he cheated on me with. Ten years younger. And I… I can’t stop looking.

I’m straight, mostly—but back in college I dated a girl from my class. A stupid mistake. Now… maybe it’s the alcohol, loosening something I shouldn’t feel. My chest tightens, my head spins, I don’t know if this is anger or curiosity or… what the hell even is this.

Her gaze lingered.

"I think you're pretty cool."

"You're only saying tha-"

Suddenly, before I could even react, Avery leaned in and pressed her lips to mine. For a moment, I was surprised but honestly, when her lips touched mine, it felt... right.

My heart kicked up a beat as I responded instinctively, my hand reaching out to gently hold her waist. The warmth of her lips, the soft pressure, the sweet taste sent a thrill through me. It was like time paused, just us caught in that quiet, electric moment.

When she finally pulled back, I felt my entire face heat up.

"Why-?"

"I'll see you later. Good night, Cassie."

She tucked a stray hair behind my ear, her touch lingering. She looked at me a little longer. The next thing I knew she was gone.

The audacity!

My chest was pounding. I shouldn’t have liked this. I knew I shouldn’t. But I did. Damn it, I liked it. And… I didn’t even know what that meant. I'm totally confused.