Page 18 of The Firefighter's Claim
I nod, too overwhelmed for words. What we have defies logic, defies timelines, defies explanation. But it's real. As real as the steady heartbeat beneath my cheek, as real as the warmth of his body enveloping mine.
"I've never felt this way before," I confess into the quiet darkness of the room. "Like I belong to someone. With someone."
His arms tighten around me. "You do," he says simply. "You belong with me. To me. And I belong to you."
Tomorrow I'll return to work. Tomorrow we'll begin navigating the complexities of merging our separate lives. Tomorrow reality will intrude on the sanctuary we've created.
But tonight, I allow myself to believe in this impossible thing we've found—this connection that blazed to life in the midst of destruction. This love that defies explanation but existsnonetheless, as certain as the strong arms holding me and the steady heart beating beneath my ear.
eight
. . .
Dagger
The building looksdifferent in daylight, less imposing without flames licking up its sides. They've cleared the debris, replaced the blown-out windows on the lower floors, repainted the exterior where smoke damage blackened the brick. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I park across the street. I don't want to be here. Don't want her to see that other lives have moved on, that there's a path back to her old existence that doesn't include me. But she deserves the choice. Even if the thought of her taking it makes me feel like my chest is caving in.
"They've made progress," Connie says quietly beside me, her eyes fixed on the apartment building where I found her—where everything in my life changed in an instant.
"Yeah." The word comes out rougher than intended. "Third floor's still under renovation. Your unit and the ones around it took the worst damage."
She nods, absently toying with the sleeve of her new sweater—soft blue, matches her eyes. "The insurance company saidit might be another month or two before those units are habitable."
A month or two. More time with her in my home, in my bed, in my life. Not enough. Not nearly enough. I need forever.
"Do you want to go in? The property manager said she'd meet us, show you what they've done, what the plans are."
Connie hesitates, then nods. I exit the truck, rounding to her side to open her door—a gesture she initially found old-fashioned but now accepts with a small smile that does dangerous things to my heart.
The lobby smells of fresh paint and new carpet. No trace of the acrid smoke that filled it two weeks ago. The property manager meets us with a clipboard and a professionally sympathetic expression, launching into details about the renovation timeline, insurance coverage, future rent considerations.
I hang back as they talk, watching Connie's face. She's listening attentively, asking practical questions about the restoration process. My perfect, practical girl. Always thinking things through while I operate on instinct and need.
They take the elevator to the third floor—functional now, though it wasn't the night of the fire. The hallway is gutted, walls stripped to the studs, floors bare concrete. The manager unlocks what was once Connie's door, revealing a hollow shell of the apartment where she lived.
"As you can see, we've removed all the damaged materials," the manager explains. "We'll be putting in new drywall next week, then flooring, fixtures, cabinets. You'll essentially have a brand-new apartment when it's done."
Connie steps into the space, her eyes tracking around the perimeter. Is she imagining it finished? Imagining herself living here again, sleeping in a bed that isn't mine, waking up without my arms around her?
Something cold and sharp twists in my gut.
"We're keeping a waitlist for the renovated units," the manager continues. "Since you were a previous tenant, you have first right of refusal on this one. We'll need to know in the next few weeks if you'd like to reserve it."
Connie nods, still looking around the hollow space. "Thank you. I'll think about it."
Think about it. Not an outright rejection of the idea. The twist in my gut tightens.
We leave the manager with promises to be in touch, heading back to my truck in silence. I help Connie in, close her door, walk around to the driver's side. Each movement feels mechanical, my mind racing ahead to what comes next.
I start the engine but don't pull away from the curb. Instead, I reach into my pocket, removing the small object I've carried all morning, waiting for the right moment.
"I have something for you," I say, holding out my hand, palm up, revealing the key nestled there. Simple brass, newly cut, utterly ordinary except for what it represents.
She looks at it, then at me, her eyes questioning.
"It's a key to my place," I explain, the words inadequate for the magnitude of what I'm offering. "You don't have to go back there. Not unless you want to."
She takes the key, her fingers brushing mine, sending electricity up my arm. "Are you asking me to move in with you? Officially?"
