Page 9 of One S'more Time

His friend calls over, "Nate, man, you coming to Tony's retirement thing Friday?" He's leaning against the display case, examining the pastries.

"Wouldn't miss it," Nate answers, eyes still on me. There's something in that steady gaze that makes my stomach do a little flip. Like I'm the only person in the room worth looking at, flour-dusted arms and all.

"Good, because half the department's wives are asking if everyone's hero will be there." His friend laughs, finally glancing up with a knowing smirk. "They all want to introduce their single friends to Fireman Campbell. You're practically a local celebrity after that warehouse rescue last year." He winks at me as if letting me in on some secret, and I feel a sudden, ridiculous pang of jealousy at the thought of all these unknown women circling Nate like hungry sharks.

Something cold slithers into my stomach, spreading like ice water through my veins. Everyone's hero. Of course. The guy who runs into burning buildings without a second thought. The guy who helps damsels in distress at fundraisers with that perfect, reassuring smile. The guy who probably sees me as just another person to rescue—another charity case in his collection of good deeds. I press my lips together, trying to squash the unwelcome thought before it takes root. Why would someone like him see me as anything else? He's probably got a whole lineup of women who don't come with a side of emotional baggage and flour-dusted everything.

Before I can spiral further, the bell chimes again. A tall blonde in yoga pants and a fitted top walks in, all legs and confidence. She's the kind of woman who probably hasn't eaten a carb since 2015, with cheekbones that could cut glass. I have no idea what appeal my bakery could have to her, as everything I sell probablyhas more calories than she eats in a day. She spots Nate and her face lights up like she's just won some kind of jackpot.

"Nate Campbell! I thought that was you." She glides over, placing a manicured hand on his arm with the casual entitlement of someone who's never been told no. Her nails are a perfect glossy nude, not a chip in sight. "Remember me? Melissa Winters? We met at the charity gala last month. You know, the firefighter calendar fundraiser?"

"Right, hello," Nate says politely, shifting slightly away from her touch. I notice the subtle way he creates distance, but can't help wondering if it's just good manners. His shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, and he takes half a step backward, positioning his coffee cup between them like a tiny ceramic shield. Part of me wants to believe he's genuinely uncomfortable, but the rational side of my brain reminds me that men like him probably have women like her falling at their feet daily.

She continues chatting, laughing too loudly at nothing particularly funny, not once acknowledging my existence even though I'm standing right here, flour probably still dusting my apron and a smudge of vanilla frosting on my wrist that I didn't have time to wipe away. It's like I'm invisible—just the bakery owner, not worth noticing next to him. The human equivalent of wallpaper in my own damn shop. I've been here before, this feeling of fading into the background while someone prettier, louder, more confident takes center stage. My fingers fidget with the strings of my apron as I watch her toss her perfect hair, wondering if Nate even remembers I'm still standing here or if I've already been forgotten in the wake of her designer perfume.

"We should grab drinks sometime," she suggests, her meaning crystal clear as she tosses her perfect hair over one shoulder. The invitation hangs in the air between them like expensive perfume,heavy and impossible to ignore. My stomach twists into a pretzel as I watch this painfully familiar scene unfold—beautiful woman making a move, me standing awkwardly on the sidelines like some kind of pastry-wielding ghost.

"I'm seeing someone, actually," Nate replies firmly, glancing at me with those steady eyes of his. There's something in that look—something warm and certain that makes my breath catch. For a split second, I forget about the flour on my apron and the stranger with the perfect hair, because Nate Campbell is looking at me like I'm the only person in the room.

But even with that look, the damage is done. That familiar voice in my head whispers:This isn't real. He's just being nice. You're his charity case—the sad, curvy baker he's trying to save. Another rescue mission for the heroic firefighter who can't help himself.I feel myself shrinking, becoming smaller even as my body takes up the same amount of space.

I step back, mumbling something about checking the oven, needing space to breathe through the sudden tightness in my chest. My hair falls forward, creating a curtain between me and this moment I can't quite believe. It's the same retreat I've perfected over years of watching women like her slide effortlessly into spaces I've convinced myself I don't fit. The kitchen has always been my sanctuary—a place where measurements make sense and ingredients behave according to predictable rules. Unlike whatever this is between Nate and me, which feels as unstable as meringue in humid weather. I back away, wondering if he'll even notice I'm gone or if, like everyone else, he'll be relieved when the awkward, flour-dusted interruption removes herself from the equation.

9

BEYOND THE HERO'S MASK

NATE

I watch Ellie retreat to the kitchen, her shoulders hunched slightly inward. The door swings shut behind her, and I recognize that look—I've seen it before when she thinks no one's watching. It's the same expression she wore at the fundraiser right before I stepped in to help with the fallen cupcakes. That mixture of vulnerability and determination that makes something protective stir in my chest. Melissa is still talking, something about her upcoming vacation to the Bahamas, but my focus has already shifted entirely. That dark hair disappearing through the swinging door is like a beacon pulling me forward.

"Excuse me," I interrupt, not waiting for her response as I move toward the kitchen. My firefighter instincts kick in—not because there's danger, but because someone needs support, and that someone is Ellie. Years of running toward problems instead of away from them has hardened into habit, but this feels different. More personal. Those dark eyes that so frequently show flashes of uncertainty have been occupying more of my thoughts than I'd care to admit, even to myself. My sister would have a field day if she knew how quickly this woman has gotten under my skin.

When I push through the swinging door, Ellie's busying herself with something that doesn't need attention—rearranging perfectly aligned mixing bowls. Her hands are trembling slightly, and her curls have fallen forward to partially shield her face. It's the universal sign of someone hiding, and I recognize it immediately.

"Hey," I say softly, keeping my voice low and steady like I would approaching someone who needs reassurance.

She jumps, those dark eyes widening before she plasters on a smile that doesn't reach them. It's the kind of smile I've seen too many times when people are trying to convince themselves they're fine. "Sorry, just needed to check on something," she manages, fingers still fidgeting with the edge of a stainless steel bowl.

I step closer, deliberately leaving enough space that she doesn't feel cornered. My time helping people in crisis situations has taught me that physical space matters when someone's feeling vulnerable. "No, you didn't. You needed to escape." I state it as the simple fact it is, no judgment in my tone.

Her eyes widen slightly, caught off-guard by my directness. There's that flicker of vulnerability that she tries so hard to hide behind her professional demeanor, but I've gotten pretty good at spotting the telltale signs of someone retreating into themselves.

"Ellie, I see what's happening here." I lean against the counter, deliberately casual, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. After years of putting my life in danger, you'd think talking about feelings would be easier. "You think I'm with you because I'm trying to be some kind of hero. That I'm just being nice."

She freezes, hands stilling on a spatula, her knuckles whitening slightly with pressure. A small dusting of flour marks her cheek, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and brush it away. "Aren't you?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, like she's afraid of the answer either way.

"I'm with you because when I walk into a room and see you, everything else goes quiet." The truth spills out easier than I expected, years of holding back emotions suddenly giving way like a dam breaking. "Do you know how rare that is? For someone like me who's spent their life in chaos and emergencies? You're not some project or good deed, Ellie. You're the calm I never knew I was looking for."

Her eyes meet mine, uncertain but listening. There's a glimmer of something there—hope, maybe—fighting against the doubt she's wrapped around herself like armor.

"You see me. Not the firefighter, not the hero. Just me." I run a hand through my hair, feeling strangely vulnerable but continuing anyway. "Everyone else sees the guy who shows up when things go wrong. You see past all that. You notice when I'm tired. You remember how I take my coffee. You bake those cinnamon things I mentioned once, and pretend it's just 'extra inventory' when we both know you made them specifically for me."

A small smile tugs at her lips, and I can see her curls shifting slightly as she tilts her head, listening.

"I'm not here to save you, Ellie. That's not what this is about." I take a step closer, my voice dropping lower, more intimate. "I'm here because with you, I don't have to be anyone's hero. I don't have to be the guy who carries everyone else's burdens. I justget to be Nate. And that feels like coming home after the longest shift of my life."

The hope in her eyes as she looks back at me almost breaks me. It's fragile, like the first green shoot after a forest fire—tentative and afraid to fully emerge. Her hair catches the light as she tilts her head slightly, and I find myself wanting to brush them back just to feel their softness between my fingers. What's happened to this woman that makes it so hard to believe that someone would want her? What kind of idiot let her go thinking she wasn't enough when everything about her feels like more than I deserve? The urge to protect her wars with my promise not to treat her like something that needs saving.

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