Page 20 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
The shadows wrap around him like a secret. His hair is damp, too, curling slightly at the ends, and there’s a single drop of water slipping down his temple, trailing slowly along his cheek.
But it’s his eyes that capture my attention.
They’re fixating on my body blatantly. His gaze isn’t polite or apologetic—it’s dark, steady. Heavy. I feel it before I even meet it. Like pressure on my skin. Like heat.
His gaze traces over the shape of my body, slow and unhurried, memorizing all of me. Watching me the way a man does when he thinks he shouldn’t but can’t help himself.
And God…I feel it everywhere.
The wet nightdress clings to my skin, stretched thin and revealing more than it should. The fabric molds to the swell of my breasts, my waist, and the curve of my hips like a second skin.
I'm still trembling from the sprint through the rain, but it’s not the cold that makes my breath catch.
It’s the way his eyes pause at my chest for a beat too long. The muscle in his jaw flexes, and his throat works as he swallows. He shifts, almost like he’s going to step closer, then doesn’t. A flicker of restraint cuts through his expression, but it’s too late. I already saw it.
The want. The need.
I should shrink. I should fold my arms, tug a blanket over myself, cross my legs, and do something to shield the barest parts of me.
But I don’t. I don’t want to.
I sit there, shoulders squared, chest pushed forward, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to outrun something. Maybe fear. Perhaps heat. Possibly the feeling of finally being seen.
A slow ache pulses through me when his eyes lift back to mine. He’s still watching me like he can’t look away. And this time, I don’t blink either.
A rush of heat surges beneath my skin- hot and unmistakable- and my nipples tighten under the thin cotton, puckering frommore than just the cold. I feel them press against the damp fabric, and I know he sees it.
His eyes flicker. His mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t pretend. Neither do I.
And when I speak, my voice is barely more than a whisper, shaky and soft and too full of something I haven’t let myself feel in a long time.
“Thank you,” I murmur, watching him watch me. “For always showing up. For saving me.”
His jaw ticks again, but he doesn’t break the gaze. His shoulders shift like the words scraped something open.
He doesn't speak, just nods as he looks me in the eye.
I tilt my head, studying him, watching as his eyes trail even lower.
“You seem to do that a lot.”
His brow creases, and he swallows hard when my legs give another tremble. “What?”
“Step in like it’s no big deal. Like you don’t even think about it.”
He shrugs as he looks at the floor a moment to consider that. “Maybe I don’t.” His eyes come up again to settle on my face.
I press my lips together and glance down at the mug in my hands, feeling the ceramic warm against my palms. The tea doesn’t burn anymore. It’s only warm now—gentle and quiet, like everything in this room.
He shifts his stance, gaze never leaving my face.
“For what it’s worth…” he says, his voice softer this time, deeper. “I do this for everyone.”
I lift a brow, trying to find my footing again. “You mean bringing a lantern and some tea?”
He huffs a soft sound—not quite a laugh—and shakes his head.
“No. Helping out.”
