5. Kate #2
I hesitate—only a moment—but then I let him take my son. He cradles him close like it’s second nature. Parker melts against him and murmurs something into his hoodie.
Noah adjusts his hold and glances at me. “Blaze’ll follow.”
Sure enough, the big dog pads onto the porch like this is routine.
I slip into my shoes on the porch and step into the rain, and I’m already running after Noah before I realize I’m without a jacket. My heart hammers loudly as I look back, trying to pick between following him and going back for a jacket. The wind slaps against my skin, cold and sharp.
I can’t possibly go back alone or ask Noah to wait with my son in the storm; it’s only a matter of moments before the rain soaks through the blanket wrapped around him. It’s a split-second decision; I keep moving, trailing after the man carrying my son through the storm like he was made for it.
We race across the gravel path. My hair’s plastered to my face by the time we reach the farmhouse. I’m soaked clean through, shivering, my breath puffing out in tight, uneven gasps. Noah shoulders the door open, sets the lantern down, and ushers us inside.
The door shuts behind me with a heavy thud, sealing out the storm.
And for a second, everything is still.
Noah moves with quiet efficiency. I trail a few feet behind him as he takes Parker to what I assume is a guest room and tucks him into a double bed with a big quilt, pulling away the blanket that is only slightly wet.
I stare at Noah, who is dripping, and realize he must have shielded him to avoid getting wet.
My heart warms as I watch him arrange the quilt over him so it doesn’t slip and add an extra to keep him warm. Blaze hops up right after him and curls around Parker like he belongs there. Parker lets out a sleepy sigh and snuggles closer, already drifting off again.
I stand there, dripping, unsure what to do with my hands. Or my racing heart.
Noah nods to the hall and I follow him out again to the living room and watch as he lights a few candles scattered around, the soft, golden glow chasing away the cool edges of the night.
The light flickers across the walls, stretching shadows and softening the sharp lines of the space, and for a moment, I forget how unfamiliar it all still feels.
Without a word, he crosses the room to the stone fireplace, crouching as he stokes the slow-burning fire until the flames crackle to life, instantly changing the temperature of the room.
The light from the hearth dances across his face, outlining the sharp cut of his jaw and the steady strength in his hands as he nudges another log into place. The scent of cedar and woodsmoke curls around the room, the kind of scent that belongs to rainy days and safe places.
He straightens and glances over his shoulder, catching me watching him before I can pretend otherwise. His voice is rough around the edges. “You warm enough?”
I nod, though the truth is I can feel the chill in my bones, partly from running through the storm and still remaining in my soaked clothes. But I figure he has done enough, and the fire will warm the room soon enough. So, I nod.
Noah stands, peeling off his jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door. After several seconds, he asks, “Want coffee? Anything to keep warm?”
“I—” I shake my head. “Tea. If you have any.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, one I feel more than hear, and disappears for a moment into the kitchen. He returns in a moment with a towel.
"For your hair," he says nodding at my dripping locks before he disappears again. The space feels different once he’s gone, not empty, but less safe. I rub the towel over my hair and face and along my arms, and let the fire’s warmth soak into me, while outside, the wind rattles against the old farmhouse windows.
There’s something about this place that makes the world slow down, like time itself bends a little here. When he returns, his large hands cradle a steaming mug, the fragrance of mint and honey drifting up from the tea before he even offers it to me.
“Here,” he says simply handing me the mug. “I should have pegged you for a tea lover.” I take it and allow the heat from the mug burn into my fingers, warming my hands.
I want to ask what he means by that, but I don’t. Our fingers brush as I take the mug, the heat seeping into my palms. I wrap both hands around it instantly, grateful for the heat. The ceramic burns pleasantly against my chilled fingers.
I note his gaze lingers a second too long before he steps back. I bring the tea to my lips, letting the warmth chase away the chill, but the fire burning in the hearth isn’t the only thing warming me now.
We settle into a silence that’s... not awkward, but not quite comfortable either, somewhere in between.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” He gestures to a couch while he stands, leaning casually against the mantle.
I nod and take a seat across from him, the candlelight and firelight dancing between us, illuminating the strong cut of his jaw and the drip of water from his hair. His t-shirt is damp, sleeves pushed up, and he seems... different here in his home.
Not softer. Just—less closed off. Like the storm peeled back some layer, neither of us expected.
I glance away from him, my pulse beating in my ears, and take another sip of tea to steady my hands.
I start to take my surroundings in. To take in the room we’re sitting in—but there isn’t much to see with only the candle and fire as a source of light.
The single candle on the table throws a soft, flickering glow across the room, licking shadows up the wall and pooling light on the wooden floorboards like spilled honey.
It outlines a chair, the corner of a bookshelf, and the silhouette of a jacket slung over a hook by the door. Everything else falls into that deep, quiet darkness only storms seem to bring.
So, I stop trying to make out the room.
And I look at him instead.
He’s still not moving. He’s standing there, a few feet away, the light catching the sharp lines of his jaw. His mouth is set firm like he’s holding something back.
The shadows wrap around him like a secret. His hair is damp, too, curling slightly at the ends, and there’s a single drop of water slipping down his temple, trailing slowly along his cheek.
But it’s his eyes that capture my attention.
They’re fixating on my body blatantly. His gaze isn’t polite or apologetic—it’s dark, steady. Heavy. I feel it before I even meet it. Like pressure on my skin. Like heat.
His gaze traces over the shape of my body, slow and unhurried, memorizing all of me. Watching me the way a man does when he thinks he shouldn’t but can’t help himself.
And God…I feel it everywhere.
The wet nightdress clings to my skin, stretched thin and revealing more than it should. The fabric molds to the swell of my breasts, my waist, and the curve of my hips like a second skin.
I'm still trembling from the sprint through the rain, but it’s not the cold that makes my breath catch.
It’s the way his eyes pause at my chest for a beat too long. The muscle in his jaw flexes, and his throat works as he swallows. He shifts, almost like he’s going to step closer, then doesn’t. A flicker of restraint cuts through his expression, but it’s too late. I already saw it.
The want. The need.
I should shrink. I should fold my arms, tug a blanket over myself, cross my legs, and do something to shield the barest parts of me.
But I don’t. I don’t want to.
I sit there, shoulders squared, chest pushed forward, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to outrun something. Maybe fear. Perhaps heat. Possibly the feeling of finally being seen.
A slow ache pulses through me when his eyes lift back to mine. He’s still watching me like he can’t look away. And this time, I don’t blink either.
A rush of heat surges beneath my skin- hot and unmistakable- and my nipples tighten under the thin cotton, puckering from more than just the cold. I feel them press against the damp fabric, and I know he sees it.
His eyes flicker. His mouth parts, but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t pretend. Neither do I.
And when I speak, my voice is barely more than a whisper, shaky and soft and too full of something I haven’t let myself feel in a long time.
“Thank you,” I murmur, watching him watch me. “For always showing up. For saving me.”
His jaw ticks again, but he doesn’t break the gaze. His shoulders shift like the words scraped something open.
He doesn't speak, just nods as he looks me in the eye.
I tilt my head, studying him, watching as his eyes trail even lower.
“You seem to do that a lot.”
His brow creases, and he swallows hard when my legs give another tremble. “What?”
“Step in like it’s no big deal. Like you don’t even think about it.”
He shrugs as he looks at the floor a moment to consider that. “Maybe I don’t.” His eyes come up again to settle on my face.
I press my lips together and glance down at the mug in my hands, feeling the ceramic warm against my palms. The tea doesn’t burn anymore. It’s only warm now—gentle and quiet, like everything in this room.
He shifts his stance, gaze never leaving my face.
“For what it’s worth…” he says, his voice softer this time, deeper. “I do this for everyone.”
I lift a brow, trying to find my footing again. “You mean bringing a lantern and some tea?”
He huffs a soft sound—not quite a laugh—and shakes his head.
“No. Helping out.”
"Occupational hazard, perhaps?" I smile at him. "Did you always know you wanted to be a firefighter?"
"No, actually that was not my original plan," he says and I raise my eyebrows so he continues. "I wanted to be a professional baseball player."
"Wow, really?" I feel surprised for a moment, but as I rake my eyes over his physique I realize he definitely has the build of a ball player. "Did you have a shot?"
"Well, when you're the star of your high school team it's easy to think you're a big shot," he smirks, "but who knows if that would have persisted in college. But that ship sailed a long time ago."
"What happened? Did you not play in college?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Life threw me a curve ball, so to speak." He hesitates a moment, wiping his hand over his mouth.
"Let's just say my plans changed unexpectedly and....and I never went to college. I stayed here and started full time at the department. I was a volunteer during high school and the chief took pity on me and gave me a paid position."
There’s a pause, long enough for the words to settle between us.
I open my mouth to ask more, but he shakes his head.
"Let's save that story for...another time..." he trails off.
I can't help but wonder what happened to change his plans so dramatically, but he obviously doesn't want to talk about it, and I don't push.
We both look up at the windows as the wind kicks up again and I hear a sheet of rain beating against the window. A sudden, hard shiver rolls through me, stealing my breath. My legs curl tighter under me, and my fingers grip the mug like it might keep the cold out.
I should have grabbed a coat earlier or asked for a blanket sooner.
Noah straightens immediately.
“You're cold”. It's not a question. His voice has a different edge now. Rougher. Concern coating his words.
I nod once, lips pressed tight.