Chapter 3
IKE
Which means Aiden's been baking again.
I pour myself a cup of coffee in the rec room and follow the scent to the kitchen, where I find exactly what I expected: Aiden Vale, surrounded by cooling racks of cinnamon rolls, looking far too awake for this hour.
"Captain." He grins at me, holding up a plate like he's presenting evidence. "Maple pecan. New recipe. Tell me this isn't the best thing you've ever tasted."
I take the roll because refusing Aiden's baked goods is more trouble than it's worth. The man takes rejection of his baking personally. I bite into it, and damn if it isn't actually incredible—rich, gooey, and sweet…with just the right amount of crunch from the chopped pecans on top.
“It's really good, Vale,” I say, which is high praise coming from me.
Aiden beams. "I knew it. I knew that using brown butter was the right call. Perry said it was unnecessary, but Perry thinks flavor is unnecessary—"
"I said the extra step added negligible improvement to the overall product," Perry's voice cuts in from behind me.
He's standing in the doorway with his tablet, probably already reviewing call logs or updating one of his many spreadsheets.
"The time-to-quality ratio didn't justify the additional labor. "
"The time-to-quality—" Aiden sputters. "It's a cinnamon roll, Perry. Not a budget report."
"Everything can be optimized."
I chuckle and shake my head. These two have been going at it since Aiden and Chevy transferred in a little over half a year ago. Perry's methodical approach to literally everything clashes spectacularly with Aiden's fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants style.
It's entertaining as hell, even if I'd never admit it.
Jasper shoulders past Perry into the kitchen, already reaching for the cooling rack. "Don't mind if I do."
"That's your third one," Perry observes.
"It's my fourth, actually." Jasper takes a huge bite, scattering pecan bits down his shirt. "And they're fucking delicious, so maybe you should try one before you optimize the joy out of everything."
Perry's eye twitches. Jasper grins with his mouth full.
I leave them to it and head toward the cubbies to check for any overnight notes or schedule changes. The morning banter fades behind me as I walk down the hall to the familiar sounds of the station waking up.
This is my life. My crew. My routine.
It's enough. It has to be enough.
I reach my cubby and find the usual—a memo about next week's training schedule, a reminder about the charity pancake breakfast we're hosting, and…
A red envelope.
I frown, pulling it out. It's small, maybe four by six inches, with a single word written on the front in flowing script:
Captain
No name or return address. Just that one word in black ink.
I glance over my shoulder. The hallway's empty. From the kitchen, I can hear Jasper loudly defending his right to unlimited treats while Perry quotes statistics about sugar intake.
I turn the envelope over and slide my finger under the flap.
Inside is a simple card—white paper, no frills, just a subtle red border. The same elegant handwriting fills the center of the page:
I see the way you hold yourself apart.
The way you watch over everyone else.
But who is watching you?
Someone should take care of the man who takes care of everyone.
— Your Secret Valentine
I read it twice. Three times.
My first thought is that it’s a joke.
Jasper's the obvious culprit, the man lives for pranks, but this doesn't feel like his style. It’s too subtle, too...intimate. And to be honest, the guy’s a great firefighter and EMT, but he lacks the refinement to pull off this kind of thing.
Aiden and Chevy wouldn’t dream of risking my wrath with both of them still rookies.
Lance is too kind and shy.
And it’s much too poetic for Perry.
I look around again, half-expecting someone to jump out and yell gotcha. But there's no one. Just me and this card and the faint smell of maple pecan cinnamon rolls drifting down the hall.
I'm a public figure and it’s a small town. People know me…if not my name, or my face. It's not impossible that some woman decided to send a flirty valentine.
But this doesn't read like a generic admirer note. This reads like someone who's been watching. Who really knows me. Someone who sees past the uniform and the title to the man underneath.
The man I've spent years making sure no one sees.
I fold the card carefully, slip it back into the envelope, and tuck it into the inside pocket of my jacket.
It's probably nothing.
I head back to my office and try to focus on work.
The note won't leave me alone.
I spend the morning buried in paperwork—budget reports, equipment requisitions, and the endless administrative bullshit that comes with running a fire station.
We get a call around ten, a minor kitchen fire at a rental property on the east side of town. A grease fire that got out of hand. No injuries, minimal damage. Textbook response.
Through all of it, the card sits in my pocket like a lump of coal, warming my chest.
Someone should take care of the man who takes care of everyone.
Who writes something like that? Who even thinks something like that about me?
My brain, unhelpfully, supplies an image: tawny blonde hair in a high ponytail. Green eyes sharp with intelligence. A teasing voice saying Captain like she knew exactly what that word did to me.
Sloane. I shut the thought down immediately. That's insane. She's twenty-three years old. She's Riley's soccer coach. She talked to me for five minutes yesterday—there's no way she'd—
No. Absolutely not.
I pull the envelope out of my pocket and study the handwriting again. It’s flowing and feminine. Could be anyone's. Could be a woman I've never even met.
Could be her.
Stop it.
I shove the card back into my pocket and force myself to focus on the training schedule for next month. Perry wants to implement a new drill rotation. Aiden thinks we should do more live-fire exercises. Jasper just wants to know if there will be food involved.
Normal problems. Station problems. Things I know how to handle.
Not mystery valentines from secret admirers who somehow see right through me.
By three o'clock, I've accepted that I'm going to spend the rest of the day thinking about two things: that card, and Sloane Chandler.
And shortly, I’m going to see Sloane in person.
It probably would be best if I called Wade…tell him I can't do pickup this week after all, and make up some excuse about scheduling conflicts or overtime or literally anything that would keep me away from that soccer field.
But that would be lying…and I don’t do that, especially not to my friends.
Instead, I catch myself glancing at the clock every fifteen minutes, anticipation coiling tighter each time.
You're pathetic. Losing your mind over a woman young enough to be your daughter.
Damn, I’m so fucked.
Eventually, I grab my jacket and head for the door.
"Hot date, Captain?" Jasper calls from the common room, where he's losing badly at whatever video game him and Perry are playing. I can tell by his constant cursing.
"Picking up Riley from soccer."
"Ah, Uncle Ike duties." Jasper grins.
"I just killed your last guard," Perry says, staring at the TV.
Jasper's face falls. "What? No. Where?"
I leave before I have to witness the carnage.
I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine, scanning the field for Riley. Practice is still going—the girls are doing some kind of scrimmage drill, their shouts carrying across the crisp February air.
And there she is.
Sloane's on the sideline, ponytail swaying as she paces and calls out instructions. She's wearing those same devastating leggings from yesterday—skin-tight, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
I get out of the truck and walk toward the field, telling myself to be cool.
She spots me almost immediately.
A bright smile spreads across her face as she waves…and it hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s as if she's happy to see me.
She's being friendly, I remind myself. She's Riley's coach. This is completely normal.
Practice wraps up a few minutes later. The girls scatter toward the bleachers, laughing and shoving each other and Sloane makes her way over to me.
"Captain Thurman." That teasing warmth is back in her voice. "Two days in a row. People might start to talk."
"Let them," I say, and immediately wonder why the hell I said that.
Her eyebrows lift slightly, as if she’s surprised. "Long day?" she asks, tilting her head as she studies me. "You look tired."
"I always look like this."
"Mm." She doesn't look convinced. "Do fire captains ever take breaks? Or is brooding vigilance a 24/7 commitment?"
A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Brooding vigilance?"
"That's what I said." She's grinning now, clearly pleased with herself for making me laugh. "You look like you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Kinda heroic, actually."
"I'm not a hero."
"Exactly what a hero would say."
I shake my head, but I can feel the corner of my mouth tugging up despite my best efforts. She's quick, this one. Smart, funny, and entirely too perceptive to boot.
And way too young for you, my brain reminds me. Don't forget that part.
But it's hard to remember why that matters when she's looking at me like this—like she actually wants to know what's going on inside my head.
When's the last time anyone looked at me like that?
Or that I wanted them to?
"How was practice?" I ask, steering toward safer ground.
"Good. Riley's really improving—her footwork is getting sharper every week." Sloane crosses her arms over her chest and shivers slightly as a gust of wind cuts across the field. "She's got good instincts. Natural athlete."
I nod, but I'm not really listening anymore. I'm watching her try to suppress another shiver, her shoulders hunching against the cold. She's been out here for at least two hours in February weather, and now she's cooling down, and that thin jacket isn't doing shit against the evening chill.
Before I can think better of it, I shrug off my own jacket and hold it out to her. "You’re cold. Take this."
For a moment, she just stares at me as I stand there in my fitted station T-shirt.
Her gaze drops. Trails over me slowly, in a way that makes heat crawl up the back of my neck.
When her eyes finally meet mine again, there's something warm and knowing in them. Something that makes my pulse kick up a notch.
"Thank you," she says softly. "But I'm okay. My jacket's in my bag. I’ll grab it in a second."
I should laugh it off and change the subject. But I'm frozen here, jacket still extended, caught in the gravity of her gaze. "You sure?" My voice comes out rough.
"I'm sure." She smiles, and it's different from her teasing grins—softer, more vulnerable. "But that was very..."
She trails off, and I have to know.
"Very what?"
"Chivalrous." The word rolls off her tongue like honey. "Old-fashioned. I like that."
My heart thumps hard.
"Uncle Ike!"
Riley's voice shatters the moment. I pull my jacket on as she comes bounding over.
"I'm starving," she announces. "Can we get burgers tonight? Please? I’ve been craving one all day. I'll literally die if I don’t have one."
"You won’t die," I say.
"I might. You don't know."
Sloane laughs, and the bright sound of it makes my stomach flip. "She's been working really hard. I think she's earned a burger."
Riley beams at her. "See? Coach Sloane gets it."
"Fine." I sigh, pretending to be put-upon even though I'd already planned on getting her whatever she wanted.
“Awesome!” Riley pumps her fist, then turns to Sloane. "Thanks, Coach! See you tomorrow!"
"Bye, Riley." Sloane's eyes slide to me, warm and amused. "Good night, Captain."
"Night, Sloane."
And there’s that smile again, the one that makes me feel like I'm standing in direct sunlight.
My god, this woman.
"Coach Sloane's pretty cool, right?" Riley says casually, once we’ve pulled onto the road.
I keep my eyes straight ahead. "She seems competent."
"Competent." Riley snorts. "That's such an old person thing to say."
"I am an old person."
"You're not that old." She goes quiet, fiddling with the strap of her bag. "She moved here from Atlanta. Or maybe Arizona? Somewhere warm, I think. She played soccer in college, but got hurt. That's why she coaches now."
I didn't ask for this information. I definitely don't need this information.
"Is that right," I say, as neutral as I can manage.
"Yeah. She's really cool about it, though. Like, she doesn't complain or whatever." Riley pauses. "The girls on the team asked if she had a boyfriend. She said she was still waiting for the right person."
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Why are you telling me this?"
Riley shrugs, the picture of innocence. "No reason. Just making conversation."
I glance over at her. She's looking out the window, but I can see the hint of a smirk on her face.
Yep, the kid is definitely too smart for her own good.
It's after nine when I finally get home.
The house is quiet. Dark. I step inside and the silence wraps around me like a familiar weight.
This is my home life. Empty rooms and solo dinners and evenings spent with nothing but my own thoughts for company.
I hang up my jacket and head to the kitchen for a beer. But instead of cracking it open and settling in front of the TV like usual, I find myself walking to the bedroom.
The card is still in my jacket pocket, but I can see the words clearly in my mind.
I see the way you hold yourself apart.
Someone should take care of the man who takes care of everyone.
I sit on the edge of my bed and pull out my phone, staring at nothing.
Sloane Chandler's face surfaces once again in my memory. The way she looked at me when I offered her my jacket. That deliberate sweep of her eyes over my body. The warmth in her voice when she called me chivalrous.
Maybe I am old-fashioned. It’s something I learned from my dad.
But she said she liked that.
I think about the valentine…the handwriting and the specific, intimate words that shined a spotlight on the dark places.
It's not her. It can't be her.
But god help me, I want it to be.