Page 13 of Flashpoint
"Hi," she says, and then seems annoyed at herself for such a basic greeting.
"Hi yourself. Come in."
She steps inside and stops dead, eyes going wide behind those wire-rimmed glasses as she scans my apartment with that analytical gaze. Her eyes move methodically from bookshelf to furniture to windows—the book collection, the quality furniture, the distinct lack of beer pong tables and neon signs.
"This is not what I expected," she finally says.
"What did you expect? Signed poster of myself over the fireplace?"
"Something like that." Her mouth twitches. "Maybe a shrine to your Instagram followers."
"That's in the bedroom. Very tasteful. Candles and everything."
She snorts—an actual snort—and the sound lands like a gut punch. Riley Pritchard just snorted at my joke. In my apartment. While wearing a sweater that looks soft enough to bury my face in.
Down, boy. Focus.
"Coffee?" I gesture toward the kitchen, grateful for something to do with my hands. "Fair warning: I take coffee extremely seriously. If you're expecting break room sludge, prepare for disappointment."
"Hazel mentioned you were a coffee snob."
"Hazel's not wrong." I move toward the espresso machine, hyperaware of Riley following me. The kitchen suddenly feels half its normal size. "Cappuccino? Latte? Americano? I do a decent cortado if you're feeling adventurous."
"Cappuccino's fine." She leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me work. "Where did you learn to do this?"
"YouTube, mostly. And a very patient barista in Portland who let me shadow her for a weekend." I tamp the grounds with practiced precision, focusing on the familiar ritual. "Spent about six months obsessing over extraction times and milk temperatures. My brother called it a midlife crisis. I called it having standards."
"The trauma surgeon brother?"
"You remembered."
"I remember everything." She says it matter-of-factly, no flirtation, but my pulse jumps anyway.
The machine hisses. I concentrate on steaming the milk to perfect microfoam—a task that usuallycalms me but currently feels like defusing a bomb while someone distracting watches.
"So, your brother's the golden child," Riley says. "What's that like?"
"Exhausting." The word comes out before I can soften it. "Every holiday, every family dinner, it's 'Ryan just published another paper' or 'Ryan's hospital gave him an award' or 'Ryan saved three lives before breakfast.'" I pour the milk carefully, watching the foam settle. "Don't get me wrong—I love him. He's a good guy. But growing up in that shadow? I learned early that I wasn't going to win the achievement game. So I found a different game."
"The charm game."
"The people game." I slide her cup across the counter. "Ryan can save your life on an operating table. I can make you feel like your life matters at a community barbecue. Different skills. Equally valid."
Riley takes a sip. Her eyes close briefly, and she makes a small humming sound that I'm absolutely going to think about later when I'm trying to sleep.
"Okay," she admits. "That's exceptional."
"Told you."
"Don't be smug."
"Can't help it. Smugness is baked into my DNA."
She rolls her eyes, but she's definitelyalmost smiling as she wanders back toward the living room, coffee in hand. I follow, watching her examine my bookshelves with crime-scene intensity—head tilted, fingers trailing along spines, occasionally pulling a volume out to check the title.
"Emergency Management Theory." She holds up a dense academic text. "Beach reading?"
"Essential reading. If you want to understand incident command structures beyond what they teach at the academy."
