Page 61 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
"You wouldn’t understand."
And just like that, he’s gone again. Retreating.
I dress in silence, my heart heavy. At the door, I glance back. Hoping.
He doesn’t move.
And I walk out, lonelier than I’ve been in years.
Chapter sixteen
Noah
The hammer’s worn handle digs into my palm; the steady rhythm of nails driving into damp wood should’ve been enough to quiet the noise in my head. But it isn’t. Hasn’t been all morning.
The pain hasn’t eased. Half want, half regret; it’s like a splinter buried too deep to dig out, no matter how many ways I try to work around it.
Every time I closed my eyes, she is there. The way her mouth tasted. The way her body moved under mine, soft and eager and so goddamn real, it scared me.
I tell myself I’m out here because the storm left the fence hanging by a thread. Because there’s work to be done, and the house felt too damn small, too damn empty. Not because I’m hoping—stupidly, selfishly needing—to catch a glimpse of her.
But I’m not fooling myself. Not even a little.
I’d barely slept, and the sheet still smelled of her; warm skin and that subtle of perfume she wears, the one that fades too fast but leaves the room feeling like she's still in it.
My lungs drag in air like I’ve been running in my sleep. It’s not exhaustion. It’s missing her.
That deep, clawing ache that doesn’t ease, no matter how many times I tell myself I should’ve known better.
I shouldn’t have touched her again.
But the second her fingers curled into my shirt last night when she looked at me like I was the only thing standing between her and falling apart—I knew I never stood a chance. I’d burn for her a thousand times over if it meant feeling her like that, even for a second.
And standing here and hammering away, focusing on a spot like a man waiting on a sentence, the worst part is knowing I'd do it all over again.
The faintest thought of her—her mouth, the way her body arched into mine, the sounds she made when I touched her is enough to stir the heat all over again. My body’s a traitor. Always has been where she’s concerned. The ache sharpens, heavier, thicker, and relentless beneath the sheets.
The sun’s just starting to stretch across the yard, burning off the last of the morning chill, when I hear the screen door creak open. The sound of small feet shuffling through gravel draws my attention before the boy even speaks.
“Hey, Coach Noah."
I glance up. Parker’s standing there in dinosaur pajamas, a plastic cereal bowl clutched in both hands, milk sloshing close to the edge every time he takes a step. His bedhead’s sticking out in every direction, his face still puffy from sleep but bright with that untouchable, unshakable kid-kind of joy.
“Hey, buddy.” My voice comes out rough, like it hasn’t been used in days, and I realize I haven’t had a real one-on-oneconversation with him. Not like this—no ball games, no Blaze to fill the space, just him and me.
He looks up, grinning around a mouthful of cereal, his cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. “Mom says I shouldn’t eat too fast, but Blaze eats faster.” He lifts his spoon for emphasis, half proud, half defending himself.
A soft chuckle slips out before I can stop it. “Blaze also eats out of a bowl on the floor, so... I’m not sure he’s the best role model.”
Parker giggles, kicking his bare feet against the grass, then points to the half-fixed fence. “You fixin’ it ‘cause the storm knocked it down?”
I nod, leaning the hammer against my shoulder. “Yeah. Can’t let it stay busted, right? Bad for the yard.”
His nose scrunches in thought. “Mom said storms break stuff ‘cause they’re mad. Like the storm broke Dad, and like when I get mad and break my crayons.”
I glance over at him, eyebrows lifting.Dad? “You break a lot of crayons?” Maybe I should ask what he means by that, but then, I will be prying.
“Only the yellow ones,” he says, completely serious. “Yellow is dumb.”
