Page 21 of The Firefighter's Claim
Mine.The possessive thought no longer startles me. I've grown comfortable with it, with the idea that this powerful, beautiful man belongs to me as completely as I belong to him.
He turns, catching me mid-ogle, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Like what you see, baby?"
"Always." The word comes easily now, this simple honesty between us.
He plates the pancakes, slides one in front of me, then leans across the counter to kiss me—a quick press of lips that carries the promise of more. Domestic. Comfortable. Perfect.
My key to the apartment sits on the counter, still attached to the new keyring he gave me yesterday. I've been carrying it everywhere, touching it in my pocket like a talisman. Not just a key to an apartment, but a key to a future I'm finally ready to embrace.
I've started moving what little I own into his space—our space. My clothes hang beside his in the closet. My toothbrush stands next to his in the bathroom. My favorite mug (a gift from the kindergarten class, painted with wobbly handprints) has a permanent place in the cabinet.
He's made room for me in ways both literal and figurative. Cleared dresser drawers, pantry shelves, space on his bookshelves. But more importantly, he's made room in his life—adjusted his schedule to match mine, introduced me to his friends at the fire station, listened with genuine interest when I talk about my students.
Last night, I overheard him on the phone with his captain, discussing shift changes that would align with my teaching schedule. "Need to be home when she's home," he'd said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to reorganize his life around mine.
I take a bite of pancake, watching him as he sits across from me, his own breakfast forgotten as he checks his phone for weather updates. Always the protector, always thinking ahead to potential dangers.
I used to find his overprotectiveness overwhelming. Now I understand it's simply how he expresses love—by anticipating threats, by creating safety, by standing between me and anything that might cause harm.
"Supposed to rain later," he says, glancing up from his phone. "Want to go for a walk before it starts? Could use some fresh air."
What he really means is that I could use fresh air. That he's noticed I've been cooped up, grading papers and preparing lesson plans all weekend. That he worries about my well-being in ways both large and small.
"I'd like that," I tell him, warmth spreading through my chest at his thoughtfulness.
He smiles—that rare, full smile that transforms his usually serious face into something breathtaking—and returns to his breakfast. I watch him eat, marveling at how comfortable this has become. How right.
I've stopped questioning whether what we have is real. Stopped worrying that it's too fast, too intense, too unlikely. The evidence is in every moment we share—in the way his eyes track me across a room, in the way my body responds to his slightest touch, in the way we move around each other with the synchronicity of dancers who've spent years learning each other's rhythms.
I love him. The realization isn't sudden—it's been building since the moment he carried me from the fire—but the certainty of it washes over me like a wave. I love this man. Not because he saved me. Not because he provides for me. Not because of the pleasure he brings my body. But because of who he is—strong yet gentle, fierce yet tender, protective yet respectful of my independence.
I love him, and I want him to know it. Not just in words whispered during passion, but in deliberate declaration. In certainty.
"Dagger," I say, interrupting his perusal of the weather forecast.
He looks up immediately, attuned as always to the nuances in my voice. "What is it, baby?"
I abandon my half-eaten breakfast, circling the counter to where he sits. His eyes track my movement, darkening as I step between his spread knees. Without hesitation, I take his face in my hands, tilting it up to mine.
"I love you," I tell him, my voice steady and sure. "I'm in love with you."
His hands come to my waist, large and warm through the thin fabric of my—his—t-shirt. "I know," he says, but the vulnerability in his eyes tells me he needed to hear it again. Will always need to hear it.
"I'm sure," I continue, needing him to understand. "Not confused or grateful or caught up in the moment. I'm sure. About you. About us."
He pulls me closer, until I'm pressed against his bare chest, feeling his heart beat against mine. "Say it again," he whispers, a rare moment of naked need from my usually confident protector.
"I love you," I repeat, pressing a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "I love you, and I choose you, and I'm staying. Forever."
A shudder runs through his powerful frame. His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me effortlessly until I'm straddling his lap on the barstool. "Mine," he growls, his mouth finding my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot that makes me gasp.
"Yours," I agree, threading my fingers through his hair, guiding his mouth back to mine. "And you're mine."
The kiss turns hungry instantly, his tongue demanding entrance, which I grant without hesitation. His hands roam my body, slipping beneath my shirt to find bare skin. I rock against him, feeling his arousal straining against his sweatpants, the thin barriers of our clothing doing little to disguise how much we want each other.
"Need you," he murmurs against my lips. "Always need you."
But today, I want to be the one in control. Want to show him through actions what I've just declared in words. I pull back slightly, meeting his heated gaze.
