Chapter 13
Noa
Emma Stag is a natural storyteller. For nearly an hour, she captivates the audience with tales of Pittsburgh's firefighting history, weaving personal anecdotes and meticulously researched facts together.
Apparently, she and Thatcher's younger son are joining the Pittsburgh department.
I stand at the back, ensuring everything runs smoothly, but my awareness is consumed by the dark-suited figure half-hidden behind the mythology section.
Every time I glance his way, Brian's eyes are already on me. Not casual observation, but focused intensity warms my skin despite the distance between us. The silver threading through his hair catches the shop lights, reminding me of how it felt between my fingers just days ago.
When the Q the silence is almost deafening after hours of crowd noise.
Brian stands in the center of the room, hands in his pockets, his chest visibly rising and falling. "That was quite an event. You're good at what you do."
"Thank you." I busy myself folding chairs, heart hammers in my chest. "I wouldn't have expected to see you back in Pittsburgh so soon."
"I moved up my trip." He takes a step closer. "I needed to be here."
I look up, abandoning any pretense of tidying. "For a meeting?"
"That's part of it." Another step. "Did you light the candles today?"
The question catches me off guard. "Not yet. I was planning to after closing up."
"I didn't light mine either," he admits. "Hotel rooms don't feel right for it."
Time seems suspended between us. The air is heavy with unspoken words. Taking a breath, I ask the question that might change everything.
"Would you like to come upstairs? Help me with the flames?"
His eyes darken, and in three quick strides, he's by my side. One hand slides to my waist while the other cups my face, his thumb gently tracing my cheekbone with unexpected tenderness.
"I haven't stopped thinking about you, Noa," he says, voice rough. "Not for a single minute."
"Me neither," I admit.
The admission breaks any remaining restraints between us. He pulls me against him, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that's both familiar and new—the same heat, the same hunger, but now weighted with possibility rather than fleeting connection.
I melt into him, my hands gripping the lapels of his suit, my body remembering exactly how we fit together. This isn't the desperate urgency of strangers seizing a moment during a storm. This is deliberate. Chosen.
When we finally break apart, both breathless, his forehead rests against mine. "So," he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "about those candles..."