Page 40 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I reach for the tin of chamomile, the familiar scent of dried flowers drifting up as I peel the lid away. It’s supposed to help; it always helps when I can’t sleep, but tonight, the ritual feels thin, like a bandage on a wound too deep to reach.
I spoon the loose tea into the strainer and watch the water roll toward a boil, the soft whistle building slow and steady- quiet enough to sit beside the thoughts I can’t shut out.
Because the truth is, I already know why I’m awake. Why my mind won’t stop spinning. Why my chest feel like it’s holding something I can’t swallow down.
It’s him.
Noah.
I lean against the counter, eyes closed, letting the steam curl around me with the scent of honey and herbs. What grips my chest isn’t fear or grief—it’s the sound of Parker’s voice from earlier, so small and certain, piercing walls I thought were impenetrable.
“I like when you’re happy. Mr. Bennett makes you happy.”
“And I like when he hugs you.”
“You’ve been smiling more since we got here. I feel safe here and with him.”
Those words haven’t left me all evening. They loop in my head, soft and stubborn, and I press mug to my lips, not drinking yet, just holding on. Parker’s too young to understand the world the way I do, but his heart... his heart sees the truth before my head dares to admit it.
Because he’s right. Noah makes me feel something, even if it’s not happiness.
And last night,damn, I let myself feel. I let myself want. The way he kissed me, slow but sure, like he knew every crack and scar and still wanted to touch the pieces. His hands weren’t rushed or greedy. Just steady and warm and reverent, like I was something worth holding.
And for the first time in years, I relished the feeling.
I sink into a chair by the table, tucking my legs up and cradling the mug between my palms. The night outside is ink-black, the moon a sliver through the glass. The stars blink cold and far away, but my body still hums with the memory of his touch.
My lips still tingle like his kiss branded them there, and the worst part? I wanted more. I still want more.
But as much as I want him and wish to lose myself in him, the guilt isn’t far behind. It sits heavy in my thoughts, the sharp ache of betrayal threading through every tender thought I’ve had since I met him.
Because before Noah, there was only one man.
Parker’s father. My first love. The only man I’d ever given myself to, body and heart. Our life hadn’t been perfect, not even close, but the love had been real. The kind that felt enough back then. The love we had made me believe I could build something lasting.
I press the warm ceramic against my cheek like it might soothe the ache rising up. It hadn’t been easy, carrying Parker. My father, always so controlled and cold, had made his disappointment clear the moment he found out I was pregnant.
To my father, Parker wasn’t a child. He was a mistake. An inconvenience.
My father had wanted me to get rid of Parker. Fix the problem and fall back into the life he carved out for me. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
So, I chose love. I walked away from everything I knew and moved in with Ethan . For a little while, it felt like we were making it work. We were building a home, saving every penny, and learning how to be parents when we were barely ready ourselves.
We didn’t have a lot, and living with Parker’s father couldn’t compare to how I grew up; the riches, the luxury, the affluence, and the connection, but we made it work. Giving birth to Parker was the best thing that happened to both of us, and I loved the life we were building.
Then... the accident and everything turned upside down.
I don't even taste the tea as I take a slow sip. Parker was eighteen months old when it happened. Too small to understand, but old enough to be the reason I kept breathing. His father was gone in an instant. One second, he was there; the next...gone.
We were together in the car that night during a storm. Parker wasn’t hurt; I sustained an injury to the forehead and sprained a wrist, but Parker’s father bore the major brunt of the accident.
I spent everything we saved, every last cent, trying to save him. Hospital bills, surgeries, and false hope stacked on top of false hope until the bank account bled dry. And when the dust settled, all that was left was me and Parker and a grief so sharp it cut the world in half.
Two weeks later, Parker fell sick, and I had to rush him to the hospital. Without money to treat Parker, I ran to the only person I had. My father. Richard Sinclair showed up like a vulture circling the bones.
Arms wide, smile tight, offering help. I was too desperate to refuse. Parker needed medicine, a roof, and food. I moved back in with him when he offered; I told myself it was temporary.
For a while, it felt like my father had changed. He let me paint again. Gave Parker space to be a child. I even let myself believe perhaps he’d softened. But my father never softened. He only waits. And when Parker was older, the truth finally came out.
