Page 101 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
By the time I’m driving back down the main road, my windows are down again. The air is cool, and I’m humming withoutmeaning to. A low, tuneless thing that feels like breathing for the first time in days. It’s Kate’s song.
My knuckles go bone-white on the wheel, heart hammering like it's trying to break free. The world outside blurs, streaks of dying light, skeletal trees whipping past, and shadows swallowing the road whole.
Elaine’s voice still hums in my skull softly, “You’re allowed to love again, Noah.”
I never thought I needed permission, but having it makes my heart ache for waiting so long. The thought of Kate, of seeing her, touching her, breathing her in, drives me forward.
The curve to the cottage comes into view.
That’s when I see it.
There’s a thick and ravenous smoke billowing from the cottage like a black tide surging into the sky, as if the earth itself is choking.
My stomach plummets, and the truck swerves as I floor the gas. The tires screech and the engine howls as I barrel down the lane, too fast, too reckless, my heart slamming against my ribs like a fist.
Not her. Not now. Not when I just….
I pull in front of the cottage and it’s drowning in smoke, devouring the roofline, rising from the back of the house in great, gulping waves.
My heart seizes. My lungs forget how to work. I slam the breaks and leap out before the truck stops.
“KATE!”
Chapter twenty-seven
Kate
“KATE!”
His voice crashes through the fog in my head, frayed and desperate, like it’s been torn from somewhere deep. It sounds far away and too close all at once.
Am I dreaming?
“Kate!” Louder now. Sharper.
No, this is not a dream.
Something’s wrong. The air feels too thick, too hot—
My eyes snap open. My heart slams into my ribs, loud and hard like a warning bell. I jerk upright, and the room spins. My throat is raw, my mouth dry, lungs struggling to drag in air. It catches halfway and stutters out again, fast and shallow.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but somehow, I did.
Everything feels off. Wrong. There’s a weight in the air, a low heat that settles on my skin like a fever. My limbs are heavy, tingling with the dull, prickling ache of nerves waking too slow.
I glance around, disoriented. The dim light from the kitchen flickers against the ceiling, casting strange, jittery shadows on the wall.
Then it hits me.
That smell.
It’s faint at first. Acrid. Sticky. Then it grows sharper, tinged with chemical burn.
The resin!
“Oh no…”
I stumble to my feet, legs wobbling as I stumble toward the kitchen. The fire alarm screams overhead, shrill and relentless. Dark smoke curls out from the cracked oven door in ghostly ribbon. The ceiling is covered in it and it's pouring through the windows. Thick and gray, too much, too fast. My lungs burn with it.
