If there's a hell specifically for EMS workers, mine would look exactly like this: second hour of a twelve-hour shift, and my coffee tastes... wrong.

Not "burnt beans" wrong. Not "Antoinette accidentally gave me chai again" wrong. This is deeper. Darker. Sinister. The kind of betrayal that makes you reevaluate your life choices, starting with leaving your apartment this morning and ending with why you didn't become a florist instead of signing up for this caffeine-dependent circus.

I take another sip, suspicious, letting it roll over my tongue like I'm a sommelier of disappointment. Nope. Still wrong—flat, lifeless, like it tried to be coffee once but failed the audition. My taste buds are staging a walkout, and my brain is already drafting their resignation letter.

Janelle clocks my face. "You okay? You look like you just watched someone double-dip at a potluck."

I lower the cup slowly, like it might explode. "Something is off. This doesn't taste like caffeine."

Josh, boots up and protein bar half-masted, snorts. "That's because it's not. Heard Kai swapped it for decaf before you clocked in."

I freeze mid-breath. "He did what?"

"Poured it right out of your travel mug and replaced it while humming an '80s power ballad," Josh says, utterly unhelpful. "Said something about teaching you 'respect.'"

I stare at my cup like it's a crime scene, and my fingers are itching for evidence bags. "He took my only defense against humanity and turned it into bean water?"

"Bean water's still technically coffee," Janelle offers.

"Not when you're twelve hours from freedom and running on three hours of sleep because your upstairs neighbor hosted a midnight banjo séance."

Janelle winces. "Yikes. Was it at least a good banjo?"

"There is no good banjo after midnight."

A low, smug whistle slices in from the bay.

Kai strolls in like the cover model for Firehouse Smug Monthly, hair damp, smelling faintly of clean soap and arrogance. Bunker pants slung criminally low. Department tee clinging like shrink-wrap on contraband, especially across the shoulders. And in his hand? A steaming, perfectly brewed cup of real coffee. The kind you can smell from ten feet away.

He even holds it like it's royalty—pinky loose, thumb curled just so—like he's the only one qualified to guard its caffeinated majesty.

"Morning, Sir Yes, Ma'am." He lifts his cup in a toast that makes me want to throw mine at his head. "How's the brew today?"

"You swapped my coffee."

"Allegedly," he says, not even pretending to deny it. "You seemed a little high-strung yesterday. Thought I'd help."

"Help," I repeat, cold enough to frost a window. "By chemically sedating me."

"By keeping you from giving yourself a heart attack before thirty," he corrects, sipping like he's in a commercial for Smugness. "You're welcome."

My pulse spikes. Not from caffeine, but from the sudden and overwhelming urge to murder him in front of witnesses and claim self-defense. "You're going to regret this, Hart."

His grin spreads slowly and self-assuredly. "Can't regret genius, Sinclair."

I take one long breath so I don't choke him with his radio strap.

***

Five hours later, the forced detox has settled in like a slow-moving horror movie—one where you know the jump scare is coming but you're too tired to scream.

My limbs feel like they've been filled with wet sand. My brain is a dial-up modem trying to load a webpage from 1997. There's a dull ache behind my eyes like my skull is punishing me for not feeding it the good stuff. Even my heartbeat feels... off-tempo. The jazz version of normal.

I shuffle through calls in a fog thick enough to trigger a weather advisory. Twice, I walk into rooms and just... stand there, watching a wall, waiting for the memo on why I'm there. On one run, I almost introduce myself to a patient as "Captain Tired" before my mouth mercifully stalls.

Janelle becomes my caffeine-crisis sponsor, sliding protein bars into my hand like she's passing contraband in prison. "Stay strong," she whispers, as if this is a noble cleanse and not a crime against humanity.

Josh's sympathy is strictly IT. "You look like you're running Windows 95," he says. "Waiting on your brain's blue screen of death."

"Keep talking," I mumble, opening a wrapper upside down for the third time, "and I'll control-alternate-delete your eyebrows."

The fog keeps finding new ways to humiliate me. I try to scan a supply box with my badge and beep my own sternum. I put a pulse-ox on my thumb and stare at my phone, waiting for the Bluetooth to connect like I invented a new kind of stupid. I chart "B/P 118/72 with a smile" because my hand decides to add a smiley face and then refuses to lift the pen for the next ten seconds. Janelle gently rotates the tablet. "Let's... not emoji the vitals."

Meanwhile, every single time. Every. Single. Time. I pass the firehouse side of the bay, and Kai is there. Waiting. Leaning against the wall with the casual confidence of a man who's never known suffering, one ankle crossed, mug steaming like a caffeinated halo. He smirks. Every. Time.

He's the human equivalent of an email read receipt: smug proof that yes, he saw my suffering, and no, he's not doing anything about it.

The first time I shuffle by, he lifts the lid on his thermos so the scent wafts across the invisible DMZ between our departments—rich, chocolatey, and a hint of citrus. "Single origin," he says conversationally, like he's narrating a nature documentary. "Washed process. Notes of victory. Long, smug finish."

I picture the headline: LOCAL PARAMEDIC BEATS CAPTAIN TO DEATH WITH HIS OWN AEROPRESS. "Notes of shut up," I reply, and miss the trash can with my empty protein wrapper by a full foot.

On the second pass, he's doing pour-over like a ritual. Bloom. Spiral. Wait. He glances up under his lashes and murmurs, "Timing is everything." I consider timing my crime. Noon? Broad daylight? Plenty of alibis.

By pass three, he's added props. There's a handwritten tasting card under my empty mug that reads: "TODAY'S SPECIAL—DECAF: A STUDY IN CONSEQUENCES." I hold it up with two fingers like it's a cursed artifact. "You labeling exhibits now?"

"Evidence," he says cheerfully. "For your trial."

"Cute. I'll bring the sentencing."

Dispatch pings a routine lift assist. I yawn so hard my jaw pops, and then apologize to the air for yawning at it. On scene, I nearly ask the patient to sign my coffee cup instead of the refusal form. Janelle gently rotates the clipboard again. "And we're just gonna—pretend that didn't happen."

Back at the bay, Josh has made a sympathy sign for my locker: CODE BROWN (COFFEE SHORTAGE) — DO NOT APPROACH. Someone draws a skull and crossbones with coffee beans for eyes. Someone else--Kai--sticks a safety tag on my mug that says OUT OF SERVICE—AWAITING PARTS. I peel it off and stick it to his face in my mind.

I try chewing coffee beans from a trail mix, Josh swears, "count." They don't count. My mouth tastes like resentful gravel. "This is what despair tastes like," I tell Janelle.

She pats my shoulder. "You're doing amazing, sweetie."

"I'm going to commit a murder."

"Manifest non-homicide," she says. "In through the nose, out through the mouth."

"Out through Kai's office window," I mutter.

We get a kid with a scraped knee who asks if I'm a "sleepy doctor." "No," I say solemnly. "I'm a paramedic on strike." He gives me half a fruit snack in solidarity. I accept and consider proposing to his mother so I can have joint custody of her espresso machine.

Passing the bay again, Kai lifts his mug in salute. "How's the brew today, Sunshine?"

I picture his funeral program. He died as he lived: insufferably confident. Favorite pastime: ruining lives via beans. "Drink fast," I tell him. "Accidents happen."

"Mmm." He sips, eyes laughing. "Threats before lunch. Bold."

"Promise before lunch," I correct. "Threat after dessert."

He leans closer, voice soft enough to slip under my ribcage. "If you ask nicely, I'll make you a cup."

"If you ask nicely, I'll let you keep your kneecaps," I say, and my smile is all teeth.

He grins, like he enjoys being hunted.

By hour six, the bay clock is heckling me. I catch myself staring at the drip of the IV bag in the restock room like a hypnotist's watch. My body is writing a strongly worded letter to my soul: Dear Management, your decision-making is trash.

I start negotiating with the universe like it owes me store credit. If I make it to lunch without face-planting, I'll stop judging people who order vanilla lattes with eight pumps. (No, I won't.) If I survive the next ten minutes, I will not replace Kai's shampoo with cold brew. (Unconfirmed.)

I pass the fireside again, and he's changed tactics: latte art. There's a little foam heart staring at me over the rim as he takes a slow sip, eyes on mine the entire time. "Oops," he says, not oops at all, "this one turned out beautiful."

"Perfect," I say sweetly. "Frame it for the memorial."

"For your dignity?" He tsks. "Gone too soon."

Janelle returns from the kitchen with a paper cup. "Hot cocoa," she announces. "Placebo caffeine."

I take a heroic sip. It tastes like childhood and defeat. "I'm going to commit arson," I murmur.

"On who?"

"Conceptually: decaf."

Josh zips by with a clipboard. "If we start a pool on who snaps first—Kai or Violet—can we consider that morale-building?"

"Only if the payouts are in espresso," I say.

He looks thoughtful. "I could make that happen."

The coup de grâce lands at 13:04, when I find a sticky note on my monitor paper that says, in Kai's blocky handwriting: Hydrate. You're getting meaner. It's hot. It should be sweet. It feels like a dare.

I peel the note off, stick it to my chest, and march to the kitchen to drink water like it insulted my ancestors. In the reflection of the microwave door, I can see him in the doorway behind me, still smiling that infuriating, patient smile of a man with a plan.

This isn't a prank. It's psychological warfare.

And I am going to end it.

***

At 1100, my fog shifts into pettiness. "Court is now in session," I announce, banging my trauma shears on the break-room table.

Janelle gasps with delight and immediately fashions a gavel from a rolled-up glove box. Josh flips a whiteboard to a fresh side and scribbles MUG COURT in violent block letters.

Kai saunters in mid-pageantry, mug in hand. "What's this? A fan club meeting?"

"Defendant, step forward," I say, pointing my shears like a sword. "You're charged with Premeditated Bean Tampering in the first degree."

He blinks, innocent as a feral cat. "Never heard of it."

"Count two," Josh reads solemnly, "Aggravated Smirking."

"Guilty," the entire EMS crew choruses.

Kai clutches his chest. "I see this is a fair trial."

"State your defense," I say.

He takes a leisurely sip, then shrugs. "Public safety. I kept you from having a fourth espresso."

Janelle leans over to me. "Did you have a fourth espresso?"

"I would have," I hiss.

"Your honor," Kai continues, "I submit Exhibit A: Yesterday, Ms. Sinclair threatened to Tase me with her eyes. I feared for my safety and for the integrity of the coffee supply."

Gasps. Scoffs. A laugh-snort from the bay.

"Overruled," I say. "You feared nothing except a strong female lead."

Kai's mouth curves. "Accurate. Terrifying."

"Sentencing," Josh declares. "We recommend one public apology and two donuts delivered to the victim."

Kai considers. "What if I offer reparations?" He pulls a foil-wrapped something from behind his back and unveils a cinnamon roll the size of a hubcap. The room moans involuntarily. My stomach sings like a choir.

I cross my arms. "Bribery will get you everywhere. But it won't save you."

"Oh, I don't want saving," he says, eyes glinting. "I want sport."

"Then prepare to suffer," I tell him. "Court adjourned."

He salutes with his mug, all lazy promise. "Can't wait."

***

After lunch, I commandeer a corner of the whiteboard and write:

RIVALRY RULES OF ENGAGEMENT — Willow Creek Edition

1. Patient care is sacred. Pranks pause on calls.

2. No messing with gear checks, radios, or rigs.

3. No glitter in or near airways. (Looking at you, Mr. July.)

4. Memes allowed. Doxxing Antoinette's hair height: not allowed.

5. Coffee is Geneva-Convention-protected... unless you started it.

6. Loser buys donuts. Winner chooses sprinkles.

By the time I cap the marker, there's a pool of people reading like we just posted the Ten Commandments. Someone tapes up a tip jar under the board and labels it Legal Fund. Josh slips in a dollar and says, "For Violet's future bail."

"Very cute," I say. "I'm not getting arrested."

"Yet," Kai says, appearing from nowhere like a well-muscled jump scare. He reads the rules, hums, then uncaps the marker and adds:

7. Trash talk mandatory. Feelings optional.

He sets the marker down and looks at me like the ball's firmly in my court. It is. Which is why, at 1630, my plan blossoms.

***

By the end of the shift, I've crafted a revenge so petty it belongs in a museum between Neighbor's Fence One Inch Over the Property Line and Passive-Aggressive Sticky Note.

Step one: Gain access to the firehouse fridge.

Step two: Replace Kai's precious "Firehouse Special" blend—the one he treats like the beans were blessed by monks under a blood moon—with the cheapest instant grounds I can find. Plastic tub. Scorched-cardboard flavor.

Step three: Sit back and watch chaos bloom.

Morning. Execution flawless. Ocean's Eleven could take notes.

Janelle runs interference with a fake "urgent" med-supply question. Josh "accidentally" locks Kai out of the bay for exactly two minutes, buying me time to slip into the kitchen. Fridge hums; there it is—Kai's prized bag, front and center, basking like royalty.

I swap it with surgical precision, angle the impostor's label just so, and take the real bag home like a hostage I fully intend to keep as ransom.

When Kai finally strolls in to brew, I'm already in the break room, pretending to scroll with the innocent boredom of someone who definitely hasn't committed beverage sabotage. The room smells faintly of burnt toast and diesel—perfect cover scent.

He pours. Brews. Steam rises.

He takes a sip.

Immediate pause. His face freezes mid-swallow. He stares into the mug like it just told him it's leaving him for a French press. He tries a second sip—because denial is a powerful drug—and grimaces harder.

I don't look up. I sip my real coffee and hum. "Everything okay over there?"

Kai's eyes narrow. "Something's wrong with the coffee."

I tilt my head, all feigned concern. "Hmm. Maybe you're just high-strung. Ever thought about switching to decaf?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw—cracks in the firefighter's calm. For a split second, grudging admiration flickers; then the infuriating smirk returns.

"Alright, Sinclair," he says slowly, like a blood oath. "Game on."

Everyone feels it—the little pressure change in the air. Heads lift. Eyes dart between us. Somewhere, a bay fan groans like a drumroll.

I smile, sugar-sweet. "Oh, it's already on."

I cap the day by taping a ransom-style note to his locker:

WE HAVE YOUR BEANS.
They're safe... for now.
Terms: 1 dozen glazed donuts + 1 public apology + 1 admission that EMS is hotter.
—Sincerely, Sir Yes Ma'am

Two minutes later, my phone pings with a new group chat that someone has gleefully named Mugshots.

Bennett (Fire): lol, whose idea was the ransom note

Janelle (EMS): My captain is innocent and cannot type at this time

Josh (EMS): long live the bean heist

Kai (Fire): If you return the hostage unharmed, I'll consider mercy

Me: Mercy is canceled until further notice

Paige (Townie menace): Can someone put this on the Willow Creek bulletin so I can place bets

Henderson (Fire Capt): If any of you touch the aerial with sticky fingers, I'll cry and then write you up in that order

I'm still cackling when another text buzzes in—this time from Kai, private.

Kai: You know, I was gentle yesterday because it was your first week, right?

Me: You replaced my coffee with sadness.

Kai: And you replaced mine with dirt.

Me: Compost is great for growth.

Kai: Then watch me grow. Attached: a photo of a brand-new countertop espresso machine being unboxed on a stainless-steel prep table.

I stare. He didn't.

He did.

Two hours later, the firehouse kitchen sounds like an Italian café and smells like heaven's armpit. On my third pass by the doorway, I see him tamping grounds like a smug barista, foam arting a leaf with surgical precision. The foam leaf says SURRENDER.

"Cute," I say, appearing at his elbow. "Did you name her?"

"Her name is Justice," he says, deadpan. "Want a mercy cappuccino?"

"I don't drink beverages made with extortion."

"You sure? It's got a little cinnamon." He twirls the shaker. "Helps with humility."

"Couldn't possibly help you," I say, and slide a sticker under his mug. When he lifts it, the underside flashes DECAF in block letters.

His laugh is low and real. "You're dangerous."

"Tell your taste buds I said hi."

He leans in, not enough to crowd, just enough to feel the heat of him. "Call it now, Sinclair: truce or escalation?"

"Escalation," I say, sweet as sugar. "And bring donuts."

***

At 2100, we clear our final call: an elderly chess champion whose dehydration we checkmated with fluids while he schooled us on the Sicilian Defense. I pull into the bay humming victory. My phone buzzes again.

Kai: For your records. Attached: a photo of my kidnapped travel mug, buckled into the back seat of Ladder 4 like a beloved child. The caption reads: In protective custody. Will be released upon receipt of apology and sprinkles.

I snap a counter-pic of his stolen bean bag cradled in a blanket in my ambulance's jump seat with a pacifier photoshopped onto the label. Sleeping soundly. Loves EMS lullabies.

There's a beat, then another text from the menace arrives. Kai: You're impossible.

Me: You started it.

Kai: I'm finishing it. Tomorrow. 0600.

Me: Bring your A-game, Barbie.

Kai: I'm bringing Justice.

I tuck my phone away, my pulse doing a cocky little drum solo, and add one last line to the Rules board before I clock out:

8. No one touches the therapy dog with caffeine hands.

Someone had added a paw print sticker by the time I set the marker down.

As I head for the door, I catch a last flicker of movement through the kitchen window. Kai looks up from the espresso machine like he can feel me thinking about him and tips two fingers off his temple in a private salute.

I roll my eyes so hard I see my brain... but my mouth still curves.

War is officially underway in Willow Creek.

And I'm going to win. Donuts first. Trophy later. His ego? Eventually.

God help him when I've had real coffee.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞