27. Kate
Chapter twenty-seven
Kate
“ K ATE!”
His voice crashes through the fog in my head, frayed and desperate, like it’s been torn from somewhere deep. It sounds far away and too close all at once.
Am I dreaming?
“Kate!” Louder now. Sharper.
No, this is not a dream.
Something’s wrong. The air feels too thick, too hot—
My eyes snap open. My heart slams into my ribs, loud and hard like a warning bell. I jerk upright, and the room spins. My throat is raw, my mouth dry, lungs struggling to drag in air. It catches halfway and stutters out again, fast and shallow.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but somehow, I did.
Everything feels off. Wrong. There’s a weight in the air, a low heat that settles on my skin like a fever. My limbs are heavy, tingling with the dull, prickling ache of nerves waking too slow.
I glance around, disoriented. The dim light from the kitchen flickers against the ceiling, casting strange, jittery shadows on the wall.
Then it hits me.
That smell.
It’s faint at first. Acrid. Sticky. Then it grows sharper, tinged with chemical burn.
The resin!
“Oh no…”
I stumble to my feet, legs wobbling as I stumble toward the kitchen.
The fire alarm screams overhead, shrill and relentless.
Dark smoke curls out from the cracked oven door in ghostly ribbon.
The ceiling is covered in it and it's pouring through the windows.
Thick and gray, too much, too fast. My lungs burn with it.
How the hell did I sleep through this?
The tea. Emily’s tea. I must’ve knocked out harder than I realized.
I lunge for the oven. The moment I touch the handle, a wall of heat rushes out, singeing the hairs on my arm. I hiss and jerk back, sucking in through my teeth.
I grab the towel off the sink, wrap it around my hand, and yank the door open. A wave of heat bursts out. The resin tray sits crooked on the rack, blackened and warping, its glossy sheen bubbling and smoking beneath the oven light.
I slam the slam the oven door shut and twist the dial to off, chest heaving, and stagger back against the counter behind me just as the front door flies open with a bang that rattles the frame.
Noah.
He barrels in, zeroes in on me. No words, just action. He grabs the fire extinguisher from the kitchen wall and moves past me. In one fluid motion, he pulls the pin, opens the oven door again, and douses the tray in white chemical spray until the smoke abates.
He spins toward me, eyes sweeping me head to toe. “Where’s Parker?”
“He’s with Emily,” I rasp. “He’s not here.”
“Thank God.”
The world tilts.
His hand drops behind my knees, and I’m lifted clean off the ground, bare legs, his T-shirt brushing my thighs, skin still clammy from the heat.
I clutch his shoulders, dizzy and disoriented, but there’s no hesitation in the way he moves.
I can breathe a little easier once we get out into the cool night air, but he doesn’t drop me on my feet.
The next thing I hear is his whistle, short and sharp, and I realize he’s calling for Blaze.
He must have left him behind in the haste to get to me.
And soon I hear Blaze’s paws drumming across the gravel, the familiar chuff of his breath closing in behind us as we cut through the dark.I wrap my arms tightly around him until we’re inside Noah’s house, his scent already crowding my lungs: cedar, sweat, smoke.
He sets me down gently on the couch, the old leather warm and worn beneath me. Then he disappears into the kitchen.
Water runs. Drawers open. Something clatters.
When he returns, he kneels in front of me, holding a damp towel and a fire-department-issued inhaler.
His brows are drawn tight, and for the first time since he burst through my door, I see it.The fear. Still clinging to him like smoke.
He wipes my face, then my hands—slow, methodical. The towel is warm and smells like eucalyptus. I feel his fingers tremble through the fabric.
“Here,” he says softly, offering the inhaler. “Just a few puffs. It’ll help.”
I take it. My lungs ease.
Only then does he really look at me.
It’s been two weeks since I last saw him. He looks wrecked. His beard's thicker, curling along his jaw like he forgot to care. There's dirt smeared on his shirt, dried salt at his temples. Exhaustion clings to him. He’s wrecked.
His gaze sweeps over me—bare feet on cold hardwood, hair in a messy bun, his old fire department T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. My hair smells of smoke and resin.
Something in his face shifts. I see the way his eyes linger, as if memorizing every detail. Not just to make sure I’m okay… but because he can’t look away.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, voice ragged. “I saw that smoke, and I swear to God, I’ve never moved faster. I thought I’d lost you before I even got to fight for you. That scared me more than any fire ever could.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper. “I was just trying to finish a piece. I must’ve fallen asleep.”
“You weren’t answering. I thought I was gonna have to drag you out.”
His hands clench. “Jesus, Katie.”
“I’m okay,” I say.
“No,” he says quietly. “You’re not. But you’re here.”
His eyes flick toward the window, looking out at the cottage.
His hand brushes the hair off my face. His fingers are rough and warm. I shudder.
“I didn’t think you were coming back,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
His brow creases. Not an accusation—just the truth, soft and tired.
He sits beside me, moving slower now, like he's not sure if he's welcome yet.
“I wasn’t,” he says. “Didn’t think I could. But then...I realized you were right.”
He cups the back of my neck. I lean in, and he exhales.
Our foreheads touch.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
His hand tightens.
“I never stopped missing you.”
My breath hitches.
The silence is thick but not empty.
I touch his wrist. “Do you… still hate me?”
He freezes. The towel slips from his hand.
His eyes meet mine—grief, longing, and something like love.
“I was never mad at you,” he says. “I hated what it meant.”
“What what meant?”
“That there was a version of you I didn’t know. And I thought I did. Then it was like losing you.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “And maybe I was too damn stubborn to admit I was scared.”
“I didn’t want to be Katherine Sinclair around you. Just me.”
“You could’ve called yourself anything, Katie. I would’ve still recognized you. You’re the first thing that’s felt real in years.
He pauses, voice lower now, "Deep down, I knew you were right. I just...needed an excuse. Something to keep from admitting the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That I was afraid of losing you, but I was too scared to fight for us.”
He sighs. “Margaret called me out. Said I’ve been a wounded dog biting anyone who gets too close. That I use grief like a shield because I’m scared to want more.”
“Margaret really said that?”
He nods. “Called me a coward.”
I say nothing. My throat’s too thick.
“I went to see Josie,” he says. “I told her about you. About how you've changed me.”
He swallows hard. “Then Elaine told me something her mother used to say. That the right person doesn’t replace the past—they help you carry it.”
He finds my hand, threads our fingers.
“And the truth is, I did know,” he says. “From the moment I saw you with that oversized bag, standing in front of the cottage, trying to figure out who you were… my heart was already gone.”
Tears slip down my cheeks. I let them.
“So you asked if I hated you?” His voice pierces. “No, Katie. I couldn’t. Because you are my heart. And I don’t think there’s a single part of me left that doesn’t belong to you.
I didn’t fall for the woman you used to be. I fell for the way it felt to love you. Because loving you feels like coming home, and I'm tired of standing outside the door."
I close the distance. My hands slide up his chest.
He holds me like he's been waiting to do so for weeks.
“I’m here,” he breathes. “I’m right here.”
His thumb wipes away a tear. I lean into him.
His fingers trace down my cheek, over my jaw. I tremble.
He looks at my lips. We breathe in sync.
His lips brush mine with care that cracks me wide open. When he kisses me, it's the kind of kiss that says I’m yours. No doubts. No distance. Not anymore .
He doesn't kiss me like I'm broken. He kisses me like he's stitching all the broken pieces back together, with his mouth, with his hands, with his heart.
I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens—soft, searching, hopeful.
His hands find my waist, grounding me.
Our tears mix between kisses.
His tongue brushes mine—gentle, sure. My pulse races.
We’re not rushing. We’re arriving.
I pull back, resting my forehead against his. We breathe.
“You’re mine, Katie,” he whispers. “Always. I don’t care about the past. Only about us. Right here. Right now.”
And that… that is everything. The weight of it, the promise in it. It makes me feel whole in a way I never thought I could again.
“I spent years thinking I didn’t deserve this. That love like this wasn’t meant for me. But you—you made me want to fight for it."
“I’m yours,” I breathe. “I’ve always been yours.”
And I know it’s real. Because in his arms, I finally feel whole.
Outside, the cottage still smolders under the stars. But in here, with him, I’ve finally found home.