Page 74 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I see a man fighting for breath. A man who’s been hurting in silence so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to be held.
Looking down at him feels like going back in time to when Parker’s father died. The only difference was that I confronted my feelings head-on and allowed myself to heal while never forgetting him. But Noah didn’t.
“I’m not asking you to forget her,” I whisper. “I’m just asking you to live and do what makes you happy.”
Noah closes his eyes. His hand lifts, and I let him cup my cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that finally escapes.
“I want to,” he says. “God, Kate. I want to.”
Noah’s voice is raw, frayed at the edges. Then he bows forward, resting his head in his hands, elbows braced on his thighs like he’s barely holding himself together. As if saying that out loud cost him the last of his strength.
I don’t move. Don’t speak.
I sit there beside him, one arm draped around his shoulders, the other hand still tangled with his. My thumb rubs slow circles against his knuckles. Not to comfort but to let him know I’m here. That I’m not afraid of his pain.
The room is so quiet you can hear the breath between the cracks. The old wood of the floor settles beneath us. The wind brushes past the windows like a sigh. Somewhere in the house, the clock ticks steadily as though it’s counting how long I’ll stay.
I stay.
He doesn’t look at me right away. His breathing is uneven. I can feel the tremble running through his shoulders—the deep, bone-level kind of weariness that comes from carrying too much for too long.
And I don’t try to fix it.
I just stay with him.
A long time passes. I don’t know how long. The night thickens around us, quiet and still, and still, I wait.
Finally, he lifts his head. His eyes are red but steadier, and it’s like something inside him has finally settled—or maybe finally let go.
“If I told you I was willing to try… to put the past behind me,” he says quietly, “if I could find the courage to do that… is there anything that might come between us?”
I meet his gaze, heart thudding, but I don’t hesitate.
I shake my head.
His voice catches. “Even Parker’s father?”
I take a breath, then another. “He’s gone. He died in a car accident when Parker was 18 months old.”
Pain flickers in Noah’s eyes. “Kate… I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright. You deserved to know.” I glance down, my hand still tangled with his. “It changed me. Made me grow up fast. But Parker… he saved me.”
Noah nods slowly. “And you saved him right back.”
We sit like that for another beat, hands linked, breathing the same quiet air.
He clears his throat. “There’s something I should ask, and I’m not sure I want the answer.”
“Ask anyway.”
He huffs a soft breath. “The age difference. I’m thirty-eight.”
“And I’m twenty-eight,” I say gently. “Yes, it’s ten years. But it doesn’t feel like ten when we’re together.”
Something about his smile then—small, crooked, a little broken—melts something inside me.
“I keep waiting for this to fall apart,” he says. “Like I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”
