Chapter 1

The smell of smoke woke me up, a thick, acrid scent that clung to the back of my throat. I sat up in bed, my heart instantly pounding in my chest. It wasn't in the apartment, but it was close, carried on the night air through my open window. Then, the sirens started, a distant wail that grew into a piercing scream that seemed to tear through the fabric of the city. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Three missed calls from Marco, my dad's sous chef. My hands shook as I called him back.

"Liam, thank god," his voice was strained, breathless. "It's the restaurant. It's... there was a fire."

I didn't hear the rest. The words blurred into the sound of the sirens outside. I threw on jeans and a t-shirt, my mind a blank wall of static. I just ran. The three blocks to my parents' restaurant, "The Amber Hearth," felt like miles. The air grew thicker with every step, the smell of burning wood and something else, something chemical and awful, filling my lungs. I saw the glow before I saw the building, an angry orange light pulsing against the dark sky. When I turned the final corner, I stopped. Red and blue lights flashed everywhere, painting the faces of the crowd that had gathered. Firefighters aimed powerful streams of water into the hollowed-out shell of what was once my home, my entire world. The sign, with its hand-carved letters, was gone, consumed by the flames that were still licking at the blackened roof beams. A police officer put a hand on my chest, stopping me from running closer. "Sir, you can't go any further." I couldn't speak, I could only stare at the wreckage, the place where my parents worked, lived, and breathed. It was all gone.

A few weeks later, the world had a muted, gray quality. I was staying with Chloe in her pristine, minimalist apartment. It felt like living in a magazine, all white walls and sharp angles, a place with no memories. She was a food critic, and her space reflected her personality, clean and organized, with everything in its proper place. She was supportive at first. She held me when I woke up from nightmares, the smell of smoke still in my nose. She made calls to the insurance company and dealt with the police. She told me we would get through it together.

One afternoon, I tried to cook. I needed to do something with my hands, something familiar. I took out a pan and turned on the gas stove. The click-click-whoosh of the blue flame sent a jolt of pure terror through me. My hand flew back as if I'd been burned. I stumbled away from the stove, breathing hard, my back hitting the cold refrigerator.

Chloe rushed in from the living room. "Liam? What's wrong?"

She saw me staring at the stove, the small, controlled flame looking like a monster. She quickly turned it off. "It's okay," she said, wrapping her arms around me. Her voice was soft. "It's okay. We don't have to cook. We can order in." She held me, but her embrace felt distant, her mind already moving on to a solution. "I'll be here for you," she whispered into my hair. I leaned into her, wanting to believe it, but a small, cold part of me felt the promise was already hollow.

The cracks started to show in small ways. We were supposed to have a quiet night in. I was still fragile, not ready for crowds or loud restaurants. I had managed to use the oven, a small victory, and was roasting a chicken. Chloe was sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone, a small frown on her face. Then it rang. Her expression changed, a mix of anxiety and something else, a sense of duty.

"Hello? Daniel?" She stood up and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I could hear the muffled tones of her voice, urgent and soothing. I turned the oven down, the smell of rosemary and garlic suddenly making me feel sick.

She came out ten minutes later, already grabbing her purse and keys. "I'm so sorry, Liam. I have to go."

"What's wrong?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. It was always the same.

"It's Daniel. He's having a really bad anxiety attack. He's alone and he's... he's not good. I need to go check on him." Daniel was her former mentor, a celebrated chef who had apparently developed a crippling anxiety disorder after a bad review.

"Chloe, we were having dinner."

"I know, baby, I'm so sorry," she said, kissing my cheek quickly. Her lips were cool. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Just put it in the fridge. We can have it tomorrow." She was out the door before I could say another word. I stood in the silent apartment, the scent of the roasted chicken filling the space. I looked at the two plates I had set on the small dining table. I slowly picked them up and carried them back to the kitchen. I didn't feel like eating anymore.

Our anniversary was the final break. Not that I knew it at the time. It had been six months since the fire, a year since Chloe and I had officially gotten together. I wanted to do something special, to prove to myself that I was moving forward, that we were still solid. I bought a beautiful cut of tuna, something that only needed to be seared for a few seconds on each side. A small flame. I could handle a small flame. I even bought a single, elegant candle for the table.

I spent the afternoon cleaning the apartment, making it feel less like her space and more like ours. I put on the music she liked and opened a bottle of wine we had been saving. Seven o'clock came and went. Then seven-thirty. At eight, my phone buzzed. It was a text from her. So sorry. Stuck at work. Big deadline.

I texted back. It's our anniversary, Chloe.

A minute later, she called. "I know, I feel terrible," she said, her voice rushed and distracted. In the background, I could hear a man's voice, low and demanding. "It's just, Daniel's new menu proposal is due tomorrow, and he's having a meltdown. I have to help him word it right. You know how he gets."

"You're with Daniel?" My voice was flat.

"I'm helping him, Liam. He's my friend. He relies on me." There was an edge to her tone now, a defensiveness that always appeared when Daniel's name came up. "We'll celebrate this weekend, I promise. I have to go." She hung up.

I stood in the kitchen, the perfectly seared tuna sitting on a cutting board, a work of art I had no desire to touch. I walked over to the table and looked at the single candle, its flame flickering, casting dancing shadows on the wall. I leaned down and blew it out. The small curl of smoke that rose from the wick smelled just like a memory.

I found myself sitting on the floor, leaning against the kitchen cabinets, the way I used to when I was a kid in my parents' restaurant, watching them work. I remembered the warmth of that kitchen, not just from the ovens, but from the easy way they moved around each other, a lifetime of love in their shared glances and gentle touches. My mom would always save me the crispy corner piece of the lasagna, sneaking it to me with a wink. My dad would let me stir the big pot of marinara, his large hand guiding mine. They built that place with their bare hands, with love and flour and fire.

A call from my old culinary school buddy, Tom, broke the silence. "Hey, man. Just checking in. How are things?"

"They're okay," I lied.

There was a pause. "Listen, Liam... I don't want to stir up trouble, but a few of us saw Chloe tonight. She was at that new French place downtown. With Daniel."

I closed my eyes. "She's helping him with a menu. It's for work." My voice was hollow, the excuse tasting like ash in my mouth.

"On your anniversary?" Tom asked gently. "He didn't look like he was having a meltdown, man. They were laughing. They looked... comfortable."

"She's just being a good friend," I insisted, the words feeling thin and pathetic. "He's sick. He needs support."

"Okay, Liam," Tom said, his voice full of a pity I couldn't stand. "If you say so. Just... take care of yourself, alright?" We hung up. I sat in the dark, the silence of Chloe's apartment pressing in on me. I thought of my parents' restaurant, of the fire that took it all away, and I realized with a sickening certainty that I was losing something else, something I had been clinging to in the wreckage. But this time, it was burning down slowly, one missed dinner and one broken promise at a time.