Page 2 of Falling for the Single Dad Firefighter

"Starting something new can feel pretty big and scary, can't it?" I keep my voice soft, angling my body so I'm not towering over her.

Mia hiccups, her grip on her father loosening just slightly.

I reach into my cardigan pocket and pull out a small, squishy star—swirled blue and purple, well-worn around the edges. I carry it out of habit, a reminder from my own teaching mentor years ago.

"This is my special star," I explain, holding it in my palm. "When I feel nervous, I like to squeeze it. Sometimes I even whisper my worries to it. Would you like to hold it today?"

Mia hesitates, then reaches out with a trembling hand. Her tiny fingers press into the soft material.

"It's squishy," she whispers, her breathing slowing as she focuses on the sensation.

"It sure is. And you know what else? We're going to read a story later about a bunny's first day of school. Would you like to be my special helper and turn the pages?"

She nods slowly, her tears subsiding to occasional sniffles.

"You can keep that star with you all day," I add. "Whenever you miss your dad, just give it a squeeze, okay?"

Only then do I allow myself to look properly at the man still standing patiently above us. The impact is immediate—not a lightning bolt, nothing so dramatic—but a subtle tug of awareness, like noticing the first cool breeze of autumn.

He is tall, with dark hair cut short and shoulders that fill out his gray t-shirt without trying. But it's his eyes that catch me off-guard—deep brown and tired around the edges, watching his daughter with such focused concern that it makes my chest tighten.

"Thank you," he says simply when he catches me looking. His voice matches his presence—steady but with a rough edge that suggests he doesn't waste words. "She's been having a tough time with the idea of school."

"That's completely normal," I assure him, dragging my attention back to Mia, who now squeezes the star ball rhythmically. "The first day is always the hardest."

I smile at Mia, who's finally relaxed her death grip on her father's jeans. "Would you like to see where your desk is? You get to sit right next to the reading corner."

Mia looks up at her father, waiting.

He crouches down to her level. "I'll be back at three o'clock, princess. Right after work." His voice softens even further. "And Ms. Brown will take good care of you until then."

"Promise?" Mia's voice is small but steadier.

"Promise." He presses a kiss to her forehead.

The tenderness of the gesture catches me off guard. Three years of parent interactions have shown me all types—the helicopterparents, the distracted ones, the overly formal—but something about this quiet exchange feels different. Real.

Mia's hand slips into mine, her other still clutching the star ball. Her father straightens, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"She'll be fine," I say quietly.

He nods once. "Thank you, Ms. Brown."

"Rebecca," I hear myself say. "The parents usually call me Rebecca."

"Rebecca," he repeats, and something about hearing my name in his voice makes my cheeks warm. "I'm Samuel. Samuel Lewis."

He extends his hand, and I shake it briefly, aware of the contrast—my smooth palm against his calloused one. An odd current passes between us, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Nice to meet you, Samuel."

He nods again, gives Mia one more reassuring smile, and turns to leave. I watch him go for a moment too long before pulling my attention back to the classroom—to the twenty-two children who need me focused and present.

"Come on," I tell Mia gently. "Let's find your desk and meet some new friends."

The next two hours pass in a flurry of activity—name games, a tour of the classroom, our first story. I guide the children through morning routines, gently redirecting when needed, praising often. Mia stays quiet but participates, clutching the star during transitions.

By the time we line up for break, the classroom has settled into a kind of organized chaos that feels familiar, comfortable. I've learned half their quirks already—which ones need extra guidance, which are natural leaders, which would rather observe than participate.

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