Page 19 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I can’t possibly go back alone or ask Noah to wait with my son in the storm; it’s only a matter of moments before the rain soaks through the blanket wrapped around him. It’s a split-second decision; I keep moving, trailing after the man carrying my son through the storm like he was made for it.
We race across the gravel path. My hair’s plastered to my face by the time we reach the farmhouse. I’m soaked clean through,shivering, my breath puffing out in tight, uneven gasps. Noah shoulders the door open, sets the lantern down, and ushers us inside.
The door shuts behind me with a heavy thud, sealing out the storm.
And for a second, everything is still.
Noah moves with quiet efficiency. I trail a few feet behind him as he takes Parker to what I assume is a guest room and tucks him into a double bed with a big quilt, pulling away the blanket that is only slightly wet. I stare at Noah, who is dripping, and realize he must have shielded him to avoid getting wet.
My heart warms as I watch him arrange the quilt over him so it doesn’t slip and add an extra to keep him warm. Blaze hops up right after him and curls around Parker like he belongs there. Parker lets out a sleepy sigh and snuggles closer, already drifting off again.
I stand there, dripping, unsure what to do with my hands. Or my racing heart.
Noah nods to the hall and I follow him out again to the living room and watch as he lights a few candles scattered around, the soft, golden glow chasing away the cool edges of the night. The light flickers across the walls, stretching shadows and softening the sharp lines of the space, and for a moment, I forget how unfamiliar it all still feels.
Without a word, he crosses the room to the stone fireplace, crouching as he stokes the slow-burning fire until the flames crackle to life, instantly changing the temperature of the room.
The light from the hearth dances across his face, outlining the sharp cut of his jaw and the steady strength in his hands as he nudges another log into place. The scent of cedar and woodsmoke curls around the room, the kind of scent that belongs to rainy days and safe places.
He straightens and glances over his shoulder, catching me watching him before I can pretend otherwise. His voice is rough around the edges. “You warm enough?”
I nod, though the truth is I can feel the chill in my bones, partly from running through the storm and still remaining in my soaked clothes. But I figure he has done enough, and the fire will warm the room soon enough. So, I nod.
Noah stands, peeling off his jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door. After several seconds, he asks, “Want coffee? Anything to keep warm?”
“I—” I shake my head. “Tea. If you have any.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, one I feel more than hear, and disappears for a moment into the kitchen. He returns in a moment with a towel.
"For your hair," he says nodding at my dripping locks before he disappears again. The space feels different once he’s gone, not empty, but less safe. I rub the towel over my hair and face and along my arms, and let the fire’s warmth soak into me, while outside, the wind rattles against the old farmhouse windows.
There’s something about this place that makes the world slow down, like time itself bends a little here. When he returns, his large hands cradle a steaming mug, the fragrance of mint and honey drifting up from the tea before he even offers it to me.
“Here,” he says simply handing me the mug. “I should have pegged you for a tea lover.” I take it and allow the heat from the mug burn into my fingers, warming my hands.
I want to ask what he means by that, but I don’t. Our fingers brush as I take the mug, the heat seeping into my palms. I wrap both hands around it instantly, grateful for the heat. The ceramic burns pleasantly against my chilled fingers.
I note his gaze lingers a second too long before he steps back. I bring the tea to my lips, letting the warmth chase away the chill,but the fire burning in the hearth isn’t the only thing warming me now.
We settle into a silence that’s... not awkward, but not quite comfortable either, somewhere in between.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” He gestures to a couch while he stands, leaning casually against the mantle.
I nod and take a seat across from him, the candlelight and firelight dancing between us, illuminating the strong cut of his jaw and the drip of water from his hair. His t-shirt is damp, sleeves pushed up, and he seems... different here in his home.
Not softer. Just—less closed off. Like the storm peeled back some layer, neither of us expected.
I glance away from him, my pulse beating in my ears, and take another sip of tea to steady my hands.
I start to take my surroundings in. To take in the room we’re sitting in—but there isn’t much to see with only the candle and fire as a source of light. The single candle on the table throws a soft, flickering glow across the room, licking shadows up the wall and pooling light on the wooden floorboards like spilled honey.
It outlines a chair, the corner of a bookshelf, and the silhouette of a jacket slung over a hook by the door. Everything else falls into that deep, quiet darkness only storms seem to bring.
So, I stop trying to make out the room.
And I look at him instead.
He’s still not moving. He’s standing there, a few feet away, the light catching the sharp lines of his jaw. His mouth is set firm like he’s holding something back.
