Page 15 of Curvy Girl and the Ex-Military Firefighter

"You really mean that, don't you?"

"Every word."

My eyes can't help but trace Max's profile as he drives – the sharp line of his jaw catching the sunlight, the dark stubble I love running my fingers across, the way his muscles flex as he turns onto his street.

He's still wearing that suit, the one that made my aunt's eyes widen with approval, though the tie hangs loose now.

The truck hasn't even stopped in his driveway when that distinctive ringtone cuts through the quiet. After one month of dating a firefighter, I already know what that sound means. It's the same tone that's interrupted our dates, our movie nights, even that one time we were... well.

"I can stay," he says immediately, reaching for my hand. His green eyes are torn, caught between duty and desire. "They can handle it without me."

I run my fingers over his calloused palm, mapping the lines that tell stories of fires fought and lives saved. Each callus, each tiny scar, is part of who he is. "Go. I'll be fine here, waiting for you."

"Emma—"

"I'm not asking you to change your whole life. Not yet. Though someday, maybe we'll need to talk about those safer positions."

His smile lights up his whole face as he hands me his house keys. The keychain is a tiny silver axe – a gift from his crew after his first save.

"You're incredible, you know that? I'll hurry back. We'll order that pizza you love – extra cheese, extra everything. Celebrate properly."

I lean across the console, pressing my lips to his. He tastes like coffee, promises, and something uniquely Max that makes my head spin. Or maybe that's the pregnancy hormones.

The gravel crunches under my feet as I make my way to his front door. The house isn't huge – a firefighter's salary only goes so far – but it's home. More my home than my own apartment these days, if I'm honest.

I turn back, watching his truck disappear down the road. My firefighter. The father of my baby. The thought still feels surreal, like I might wake up any moment.

Will it be a girl with his green eyes? A boy with his brave heart? Will our daughter be as fearless as her daddy, running into danger to save others? Would our son have my love for teaching, for helping others learn and grow?

I press a hand to my stomach, smiling.

Seven years of teaching first graders suddenly feels like practice for this moment—for our moment. All those times dealing with scraped knees and hurt feelings, all the patience learned from explaining the same math problem fifteen different ways—it wasn't just a teaching experience. It was parenting boot camp.

The key slides into the lock, and Max's house welcomes me with familiar scents – his cologne, coffee, and that weird air freshener that Danny, one of his mates, bought him that's supposed to smell like "mountain rain" but really just smells like pine trees.

I kick off my heels and settle onto his couch, our couch really, since I'm here more often than not. My hand hasn't left my stomach. Somewhere in the city, Max is rushing toward danger, and being the hero, he can't help but be. But he'll come back. To me. To us.

And maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where we were always meant to end up.

Chapter 8 - Max

My mind races faster than my truck as I speed through Pine Valley's streets. A father. Me. A family. Sure, I've got my crew – they're family in their own way – but this is different.

This is blood and DNA and tiny fingers wrapping around mine.

My heart pounds against my ribs like it's trying to escape. I haven't felt this kind of nervous energy since my last firefight in Afghanistan. My hands shake on the steering wheel – something that hasn't happened since those days either.

It's not the fires or the bullets I'm afraid of anymore. It's the thought of having two perfect reasons to come home safe. Two reasons I can't take unnecessary risks.

I pull into the station's parking lot, noting how empty it looks. Strange. The emergency call should have everyone scrambling, voices echoing off the brick walls, boots thundering across concrete floors.

But it's silent.

I push through the heavy doors, frowning at Sadie's empty dispatch desk. Even during calls, the Chief's daughter never leaves her post. Something's off.

Muffled voices drift from the kitchen. I approach slowly, years of military training kicking in. My hand reaches for the door, pushing it open fast to catch whoever's in there off guard.

Instead, I'm the one who freezes.

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