Page 103 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not. But you’re here.”
His eyes flick toward the window, looking out at the cottage.
His hand brushes the hair off my face. His fingers are rough and warm. I shudder.
“I didn’t think you were coming back,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
His brow creases. Not an accusation—just the truth, soft and tired.
He sits beside me, moving slower now, like he's not sure if he's welcome yet.
“I wasn’t,” he says. “Didn’t think I could. But then...I realized you were right.”
He cups the back of my neck. I lean in, and he exhales.
Our foreheads touch.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
His hand tightens.
“I never stopped missing you.”
My breath hitches.
The silence is thick but not empty.
I touch his wrist. “Do you… still hate me?”
He freezes. The towel slips from his hand.
His eyes meet mine—grief, longing, and something like love.
“I was never mad at you,” he says. “I hated what it meant.”
“What what meant?”
“That there was a version of you I didn’t know. And I thought I did. Then it was like losing you.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “And maybe I was too damn stubborn to admit I was scared.”
“I didn’t want to be Katherine Sinclair around you. Just me.”
“You could’ve called yourself anything, Katie. I would’ve still recognized you. You’re the first thing that’s felt real in years.
He pauses, voice lower now, "Deep down, I knew you were right. I just...needed an excuse. Something to keep from admitting the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That I was afraid of losing you, but I was too scared to fight for us.”
He sighs. “Margaret called me out. Said I’ve been a wounded dog biting anyone who gets too close. That I use grief like a shield because I’m scared to want more.”
“Margaret really said that?”
He nods. “Called me a coward.”
I say nothing. My throat’s too thick.
