Page 16 of The Firefighter's Claim
seven
. . .
Connie
A week has passedsince the fire, since Dagger carried me from the flames and into a life I never imagined. Tomorrow I return to work, to twenty-six kindergarteners who've missed me, to colleagues who'll have questions about the bruise-like mark Dagger left on my neck, to a world that operates by different rules than the intimate bubble we've created here. I fold newly purchased clothes into the dresser drawer he cleared for me, each action domestic and surreal at once. How is it possible to feel so settled with someone after only seven days? How is it possible to imagine a future with a man who was a stranger when the month began?
The apartment no longer feels foreign. I know which floorboards creak, which cabinet holds the mugs, how to adjust the temperamental shower. I've learned Dagger's routines—the way he makes coffee first thing, how he checks his phone for work updates before even getting out of bed, the careful wayhe lays out his clothes the night before. Small intimacies that accumulate into something that feels dangerously like home.
I run my fingers over the soft cotton of a new blouse, tags still attached. Dagger insisted on replacing my entire wardrobe, waving away my protests about cost with the same dismissive gesture he uses whenever I suggest I might be a burden. The pile of classroom supplies sits by the door—also his doing. When I mentioned worrying about my students, he appeared the next day with bags from the teacher supply store, having somehow intuited exactly what a kindergarten teacher would need.
"You missed a spot," his deep voice rumbles from the doorway.
I turn to find him leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his massive chest, eyes warm as they take me in. He's wearing jeans and a simple black t-shirt, but he might as well be in full firefighter gear for the heroic figure he cuts.
"What spot?" I ask, glancing at the nearly organized drawer.
He crosses to me in three long strides, reaching past me to adjust a folded sweater, his chest pressing against my back. "There," he says, his breath hot against my ear. "Perfect."
The double meaning isn't lost on me. The way he says "perfect" makes it clear he's not talking about the drawer. His arms encircle my waist, drawing me back against him, his chin resting on top of my head.
"Nervous about tomorrow?" he asks, always eerily attuned to my moods.
"A little," I admit. "It's going to be strange, going back to normal life after... everything."
His arms tighten fractionally. "This is normal life now," he says with that certainty I both envy and fear. "You, me, together."
Is it, though? Is anything about this situation normal? We've been living in a state of exception—me displaced by disaster, himon leave from work, both of us cocooned in this apartment with nothing but each other and our inexplicable connection.
"What happens when you go back to work?" I ask, voicing just one of the practical concerns I've been avoiding. "When you're fighting fires and I'm teaching kindergarten and we're not just... existing in this bubble?"
He turns me in his arms, tilting my face up to his. "Nothing changes," he says simply. "This isn't temporary, Connie."
I want to believe him. Want to believe that what we've found is real and lasting. But doubt creeps in, persistent as smoke.
"Dagger, we met because you rescued me. That creates a certain... dynamic. Sometimes people confuse gratitude or trauma bonding with deeper feelings."
His jaw tightens. "Is that what you think this is? You feeling grateful? Me getting off on playing hero?"
"No, I?—"
"Because I've rescued hundreds of people, Connie. Never once brought any of them home. Never once looked at any of them and felt like someone had reached into my chest and grabbed my heart."
The raw honesty in his voice makes my eyes sting. "I'm trying to be realistic," I whisper. "This happened so fast. It's hard to trust something that feels so... overwhelming."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by determination. Without warning, he scoops me up, one arm behind my knees, the other supporting my back—the same way he carried me from the fire. He deposits me on the bed, following me down, caging me with his body.
"You think this isn't real?" he asks, his voice low and intense. "You think what I feel for you is just some rescue fantasy?"
The heat in his gaze makes me shiver. "I don't know what to think," I admit. "All I know is that no one has ever wanted me the way you seem to. It's hard to believe."
Something shifts in his expression—tenderness replacing intensity. "Let me show you," he says, his voice gentling. "Let me prove it to you."
He kisses me then, but not with the demanding passion I've grown accustomed to. This kiss is achingly tender, his lips moving against mine with reverence. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as if I'm something precious, something to be cherished.
"I see you, Connie," he murmurs against my lips. "Not just the woman I pulled from a fire. Not just a body in my bed. I see you."
His words pierce through my defenses. He begins to undress me with slow, deliberate movements, nothing like the frantic urgency of our previous encounters. Each newly exposed inch of skin receives attention—a kiss, a caress, a whispered endearment.
