Fires We Feed

The Name

Car rolled to a stop in the driveway, and I let out a quiet breath. The house in front of me belonged in one of those neighborhoods where everything was different from where I grew up; manicured lawns and the kind of quiet that made you feel both welcome and insignificant at the same time.

Two stories of sleek modern architecture rose before me: clean lines, large glass panels, steel accents, and a muted gray façade that somehow felt both imposing and inviting.

I stepped out, my blue heels clicking against the marble driveway as I approached the door.

The lights were already on, casting a soft glow across the open-plan interior. The marble floors gleamed, reflecting the modern décor, the understated elegance of the space.

I walked in and froze for a moment. The smell of pasta and garlic filled the air, but it was different. It was less polished than I expected. I had assumed the usual takeout from Bianco’s, our comfort go-to after long days, but this wasn’t takeout. The sauce was rich, though a little burnt around the edges, and fresh herbs floated on top. The kitchen itself was a bit of a disaster: cutting boards smeared with tomato, a stray whisk in the sink, flour dusting the counter like snow.

He looked up, sleeves rolled halfway, hair tousled, and my eyes immediately caught the red smear across his crisp button-down shirt. My lips twitched. He didn’t know how to cook. Not really. Not like this.

“I wanted it to be special,” he said, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. I noticed him fumble with his phone for a split second, glancing at what looked like cooking instructions. With a quick motion, he slipped it into his pocket, hiding it as if I hadn’t seen.

Eight years together, and I could probably count the times he had cooked for me on one hand. And yet here he was, fumbling through pots like a novice, somehow pulling it together.

Then I noticed the vase on the counter. Lilies. Delicate and fragrant. He wasn’t a man for gestures like this. He never was. And yet… there they were. I could have questioned it, analyzed it, wondered what it meant, but I didn’t. I just embraced it.

"I miss you, Cassie. Soon-to-be Mrs. Cassandra De Joya."

"I miss you too, Dan." I kissed him. "But what did you do to the kitchen. It looks like a crime scene. If it weren't for this ring I would think you did something wrong and are just making up for it," I jokingly added.

He laughed and just brushed it off.

"Well, you should try it."

I took a bite. He looked at me expectedly.

"What do you think?"

"Yeah. It's bad. A disgrace to Italian cuisine and to cooking in general." I poured myself a glass of water to down the saltiness of the overcooked pasta.

He scooped a spoonful of sauce, tasted it and immediately grabbed a napkin to spit it out. I couldn’t help but laugh.

"I guess I'll leave the cooking to you then. I suck at it."

"It's an A for effort though."

So I took over, rummaging through the fridge and pantry to whip up something quick ready-to-eat meals, a bit of salad, anything salvageable. It wasn’t fancy, but it was edible. We ate together at the kitchen counter, the smell of burnt sauce still lingering faintly in the air.

And yet, even as we talked and laughed, something felt… off. He seemed distracted, his smile softer but strained, as if his mind was somewhere else entirely. Maybe work, I told myself. Maybe just exhaustion.

I brushed it off. I didn’t want to ruin the night.

He kissed me, his hands warm and sure against my skin. The air between us thickened, charged with that familiar pull.

For a heartbeat, I let myself get lost in it. The closeness, the comfort, the ache. But then I pulled back, my breath unsteady. “I can’t,” I whispered. “I’m on my period.”

"Damn it." He sounded frustrated. "Can you help me finish off though? It has been a while." His eyes pleading.

We went to the bedroom. Even how tired I was, I gave him what he wanted. Ten minutes later he collapsed on the bed. Gosh I'm spent. I looked at him, changed into my sleepwear then got under the covers.

Sleep came heavy and restless. Hours later, I woke at three in the morning, the dull rhythm of the night pressing against me. I changed my tampon, the quiet hum of the house around me. As I returned to the bed, something on the side table caught my eye. His phone, lying there like a temptation I knew I shouldn’t indulge.

He was fast asleep, steady breathing, a hand draped lazily across the sheets. My heart beat a little faster, shame rising immediately. Going through his phone was a violation, a betrayal of trust. But curiosity tugged at me, insistent and sharp. I told myself it was harmless, that I was only looking.

Careful not to wake him, I picked it up. The screen lit up under my fingers. Nothing hidden. He wasn’t keeping secrets. His openness always comforted me, though the phone being on airplane mode felt… off. He needed to be reachable for work like his patients, colleagues. But here it was. Silent. I toggled airplane mode off, and notifications exploded across the screen.

And then I saw it.

A name. Avery Jennings.