Page 21 of The Blaze Between Us

When I emerge from the bathroom, he's waiting as promised, his own clothes changed to dry jeans and a simple gray henley that fits him perfectly. His dark hair is still damp, making him look younger somehow, less like the formal fire chief and more like... just Brock.

"Better?" he asks, his eyes doing a quick assessment of my condition.

"Much," I confirm, adjusting my grip on the crutches.

"I can run by the cabin later and pick up whatever you need for an overnight stay."

"That's really not necessary. These are fine."

"Let's get you back to the couch and comfortable first," he suggests, leading the way. "Then we can figure out the rest."

As I settle back onto the sofa and he repositions my ankle with fresh ice, I'm struck by how natural this feels. It should feel strange or awkward—he's my best friend's father, a man I've admired from afar for years—but instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like I was meant to be right here, in this moment, with this man tending to my injured ankle with hands that are both strong and gentle.

And that realization is more frightening than any mountain storm could ever be.

Chapter 8 - Brock

I've spent a decade perfecting the art of compartmentalization. Keep the grief separate from daily life. Keep the loneliness boxed away from my responsibilities. Keep the man distinct from the fire chief, the widower, the father.

But watching Tasha settle back onto my sofa, her borrowed clothes hanging loosely on her generous curves, her face flushed with lingering embarrassment, something in my carefully constructed system of emotional barriers begins to crack.

"Hungry?" I ask, focusing on practical matters to maintain control. "I can make us something simple for dinner."

"You don't have to cook for me," she protests, though her stomach audibly growls in contradiction.

"I was planning to eat tonight anyway," I point out with a small smile. "Feeding one more person isn't exactly a hardship."

"Then yes, I'd love some dinner. Can I help?"

I glance pointedly at her elevated ankle. "Not unless you want to hop around my kitchen on one foot."

"I'm surprisingly agile," she counters, but she's smiling now, settling deeper into the cushions. "But I'll defer to your expertise in this particular kitchen."

"Wise choice. Rest that ankle while I throw something together."

In the kitchen, I gather all the ingredients for a simple pasta dish that I can prepare without much thought. The routine activity gives me space to process this day's unexpected turn.

Twenty-four hours ago, Tasha was just a name—my daughter's college friend who was visiting town. Now, she's in my living room, wearing my daughter's clothes, and her presence fills myhouse in a way that makes it feel more like a home than it has in years.

I should be uncomfortable with this development. I should be maintaining strict boundaries, thinking of her solely as Ellie's friend, someone to help out of obligation and nothing more.

When I return to the living room carrying two plates of pasta with garlic bread, I find her examining the photos on the mantelpiece, balanced on her crutches.

"You're supposed to be resting that ankle," I chide gently.

She turns, looking slightly guilty. "I got curious. You have great photos."

My eyes follow hers to the collection of framed memories. Many feature Ellie at various ages, but there are a few with Claire as well—carefully curated over the years to honor her memory without turning our home into a shrine to the past.

"That's Ellie's eighth birthday," I say, nodding toward one showing a gap-toothed Ellie blowing out candles. "The year she insisted on a firefighter-themed party."

Tasha smiles. "Following in dad's footsteps even then."

"She went through a phase where she wanted to be just like me," I confirm, setting the plates on the coffee table. "Thankfully, she grew out of it and found her own path."

"I don't know," Tasha says thoughtfully, returning to the sofa. "There are worse things than wanting to be like you."

The simple compliment catches me off guard. I busy myself with arranging our dinner on the coffee table, unsure how to respond.

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