Page 9 of The Grumpy Firefighter
"That's one way to put it," she agrees with a small smile. "I'm not usually so impulsive. But I'm not sorry."
Her directness is both refreshing and unnerving. "It was inappropriate," I say, the words feeling hollow even as I speakthem. "I'm the incident commander, you're a volunteer. There are... complications."
"Like what?" she challenges gently. "I'm twenty-eight, Paul. Not some naive girl who doesn't know her own mind. And last I checked, kissing isn't against fire department regulations."
"It's not that simple," I say, running a hand through my hair. "I have responsibilities. The crew, the department—"
"The weight of the world?" she suggests, but there's no mockery in her tone, just a perceptiveness that cuts through my defenses. "What happened to make you so afraid of something good?"
The question hits like a physical blow, too close to truths I rarely acknowledge even to myself. I turn away, moving to the sink to rinse my empty mug, buying time.
"My partner died," I say finally, my back still to her. "Five years ago, when I was still with Denver Fire. Building collapse during what should have been a routine call."
I hear her soft intake of breath but continue before she can offer sympathy I'm not sure I can handle.
"We'd been partners for eight years. Mark was... reckless sometimes. Creative with protocols. Always looking for faster ways to do things." I turn back to face her, leaning against the counter. "I was the by-the-book one. Always arguing for caution. The day he died, I had the flu. Wasn't on shift."
"You think you could have prevented it," she says softly, not a question.
I shrug, the old guilt a familiar weight. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I learned that shortcuts kill. Improvisation kills. Breaking protocol kills."
"And that's why every safety measure matters so much to you," she concludes, her eyes gentle with understanding. "Why you resist creative solutions."
"I moved here to start over," I admit. "Smaller department, fewer high-rises and industrial hazards. But the principle remains the same: I'm responsible for everyone's safety. Including yours."
She's quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. Then she pushes her chair back and stands, testing her weight on her injured ankle. Before I can protest, she's limping slowly toward me.
"I understand protocols," she says, stopping just a foot away. "I respect what they're for. But Paul—" she reaches out, her hand coming to rest lightly on my forearm, "—not everything unpredictable is dangerous."
Her touch sends warmth spreading up my arm, a counterpoint to the cool night air from the window behind me. She's close enough that I can smell the faint floral scent of her shampoo beneath the lingering traces of smoke.
"Some risks aren't worth taking," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
Her eyes search mine, unguarded and direct. "And some are."
The air between us feels charged, magnetic. It would be so easy to close that small distance, to taste her lips again, to give in to the pull that's been growing stronger since the moment she walked into my station with cookies and ambitious plans.
Instead, I gently take her elbow, steadying her. "You should be off that ankle. Let me show you to the guest quarters."
A fleeting disappointment crosses her face, quickly replaced by understanding. "Lead the way, Chief."
The walk upstairs is slow, her hand gripping the railing while my palm hovers near the small of her back, not quite touching but ready to catch her if she falters.
The guest room is simple but comfortable: a twin bed with clean linens, a small desk, a wooden chair. I turn on the lamp, casting the room in soft golden light.
"Bathroom's down the hall," I explain, suddenly awkward. "There are spare toothbrushes in the cabinet. Towels on the shelf."
"Thank you," she says, turning to face me in the doorway. We're close again, the narrow space making it impossible not to be. "For everything."
I should leave. I should wish her goodnight, walk to my own quarters at the end of the hall, and put a solid door between us until morning brings clarity and professional distance.
Instead, I find myself frozen, captivated by the way the lamplight catches in her eyes, turning them to warm amber. By how her lips part slightly as she looks up at me, a silent invitation I'm not brave enough to accept.
"Goodnight, Natalie," I finally manage, my voice rougher than intended.
She smiles, soft and a little sad. "Goodnight, Paul."
I force myself to step back, to turn away, to walk down the hall to my own spartan quarters. Behind me, her door closes with a gentle click that somehow sounds louder than any fire alarm.
