Page 23 of The Firefighter's Claim
He shifts to look down at me, his blue eyes serious. "I'll never take it for granted. You. Us. This life we're building."
"I know." And I do know, with bone-deep certainty. This man who holds me like I'm precious, who looks at me like I'm his entire world—he will never stop fighting for us, protecting us, cherishing what we've found.
Outside, rain begins to fall, pattering against the windows in a soothing rhythm. Our walk will have to wait for another day. But I don't mind. Right now, there's nowhere else I'd rather be than here, wrapped in the arms of the man who walked through fire to find me.
My protector. My lover. My forever.
epilogue
. . .
One month later
Dagger
The ring burnsa hole in my pocket, has been burning there for days while I waited for the perfect moment. I bought it a week ago, knew the second I saw it that it was the one—a cushion-cut diamond surrounded by smaller stones, substantial without being gaudy, bright enough to catch every light but not so ostentatious that she'd be uncomfortable wearing it to wrangle kindergarteners. Perfect, like her. It's been killing me to keep it secret, especially since I've never been able to hide anything from her. She reads me too well, sees right through my defenses like they're made of glass.
A month since the fire. A month since I carried her from the flames and into my life. A month that's changed everything.
I was hollow before her. Didn't even know it, but I was. Going through the motions—work, eat, sleep, repeat. No connectionsthat mattered. No one who saw past the surface. Just empty spaces I filled with routine and duty.
Now those spaces overflow with her—her laughter in the kitchen, her clothes in my closet, her scent on my sheets. Her heart beating alongside mine, steadier and truer than I deserve.
Tonight's the night. I've planned everything—dinner at home (she hates fancy restaurants, gets self-conscious about her size despite how many times I've told her, shown her how perfect her body is), her favorite wine, candles. But the centerpiece of my plan sits on the bed, waiting for the right moment—a teddy bear, nearly identical to the one she clutched the night of the fire. The night everything changed.
It took three toy stores to find one similar enough, another day to work up the courage to take scissors to its belly, creating a small pocket where the ring now rests. It's sentimental, maybe even cheesy, but I need her to understand how completely that night altered my universe. How finding her in that burning room was like finding a piece of myself I never knew was missing.
My hands aren't steady as I light the candles, arrange the food I've spent all afternoon preparing. My heart pounds with an unfamiliar rhythm—not fear, exactly, but something adjacent to it. Not doubt—I've never been more certain of anything—but awareness of how much this matters. How much she matters.
She's working late, parent-teacher conferences. Said she'd be home by seven. My eyes check the clock for the twentieth time in as many minutes. 6:52. Soon.
The key turns in the lock right on time. She enters with a tired smile that blooms into something brighter when she sees the candlelit table, the food, the flowers.
"What's all this?" she asks, setting down her teacher's bag, kicking off her sensible shoes.
"Just wanted to do something special," I tell her, crossing the room to take her in my arms. She melts against me, fitting perfectly despite our size difference. "Rough day?"
She nods against my chest. "Long day. But better now."
I lead her to the table, pull out her chair, pour her wine. Watch her face as she takes in the spread—all her favorites, prepared exactly as she likes them. Her smile is worth every hour in the kitchen, every YouTube cooking tutorial, every burned attempt discarded in the trash.
"This is amazing," she says, taking a sip of wine, color returning to her cheeks. "What's the occasion?"
"Do I need an occasion to spoil my girl?"
She laughs, the sound filling the apartment, filling me. "No, but you're being suspiciously romantic. Should I be worried?"
"Never," I answer, reaching across the table to take her hand. "You never need to worry with me."
We eat, she tells me about her day, about five-year-olds with missing teeth and helicopter parents and the politics of the teachers' lounge. I listen, entranced as always by the animation in her face, the kindness in her voice even when recounting frustrations. She was meant to teach children—has the same patience, the same genuine interest, the same nurturing instinct with them that she shows with me.
When dinner's finished, when she's relaxed and smiling and no longer carrying the weight of her workday, I know it's time.
"Got something for you," I say, standing from the table, holding out my hand. "In the bedroom."
Her eyebrows rise suggestively. "Is that so?"
I laugh, genuine and easy—another thing she's given me, this ability to laugh without restraint. "Not that. Not yet, anyway. Come on."
