Page 5 of Falling for the Single Dad Firefighter

"Nothing," I say, just as Jax says, "Lewis has the hots for Mia's kindergarten teacher."

Lewis has the hots for Mia's kindergarten teacher," Jax announces.

Wyatt raises an eyebrow at me. "That right?"

"No." I aim a glare at Jax. "Mia was upset this morning. Her teacher helped. End of story."

"She single?" Wyatt asks, cutting right to the chase.

"I didn't ask for her relationship status," I snap. "It wasn't a date, it was a school drop-off."

Jax throws an arm around my shoulders, his voice dropping so only I can hear. "Look, man, I'm just giving you shit becausethat's what brothers do. But seriously—if you're interested, it's been five years. You're allowed to notice someone."

I shake my head, but there's something about Jax's casual support that cuts through my defenses. Despite his constant teasing, he's been there through everything—the pregnancy, Lisa leaving, those first sleepless months with a newborn. The day Mia got sick and I panicked, Jax was the one who drove us to the hospital, stayed all night in the waiting room.

"I'm not interested," I mutter, even as I recall the gentle way Rebecca had knelt beside Mia, the warmth in her eyes.

Jax just grins, seeing right through me like always. "Whatever you say."

"You're all twelve years old," I mutter, grabbing the coffee pot to refill my mug.

"Look," Caleb says in his reasonable voice, "there's nothing wrong with noticing someone, Sam. It's been what, six years?"

"Five," I correct automatically, then regret it when Jax smirks. "And it doesn't matter. She's Mia's teacher. There are boundaries."

"Boundaries," Dom snorts. "In a town this size? Everyone's connected somehow."

"That's different."

"How?" Wyatt asks.

"It just is," I insist, uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. "Can we talk about literally anything else?"

"Fine," Jax relents. "But only because your face is turning the color of our trucks."

I deliberately turn away, focusing on the schedule board on the wall. We've got a quiet day ahead—equipment checks, training drills, community outreach prep. Nothing that should get my heart rate up the way one simple conversation with Rebecca Brown had.

It's ridiculous. I've met hundreds of people through Mia and the job. Parents, babysitters, neighbors. None of them have stuck in my head like this. None of them made me notice the exact shade of their eyes or the way their voice softened when talking to Mia.

It's just because she helped with Mia, I tell myself. I'm grateful, that's all. Anyone would be.

I'm saved from further harassment by the sudden blare of the alarm. The automated voice comes over the speaker: "Engine 61, Truck 81, Squad 3. Vehicle accident with entrapment, Highway 23 mile marker 14."

The room transforms instantly. Coffee mugs abandoned, conversation forgotten. We move with practiced efficiency, all business now. This is the rhythm I understand—the clean, clear purpose of the job. No confusing feelings, no overthinking, just training and instinct.

I pull on my turnout gear, muscle memory taking over. Boots, pants, suspenders, coat. I catch a glimpse of Mia's photo as I pass my locker, her gap-toothed smile reminding me why I do this, why I come back every day despite the risks.

"Let's move!" Chief calls over the organized chaos.

As we load into the truck, Jax claps me on the shoulder. "We're not done with this conversation, Lewis."

"Yes, we are," I tell him, but I know it's a lie.

Because even as the sirens wail and we pull out of the station, lights flashing against the midday sun, I can't quite shake the image of warm eyes and gentle hands from my mind.

Not Rebecca Brown.

Ms. Brown, I correct myself firmly as the town blurs past our windows.

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