Chapter 16 #2
“And how do the people in your life usually react?”
“They get frustrated. Resentful. They start fighting with me about priorities, and I get defensive because I’m helping people who really need me. Eventually, they either demand I choose between them and my work, or they just… give up and leave.”
Forge nods slowly. “So the pattern is that you get put in a position where you have to choose between work and love, and work wins.”
“Yes.” The admission comes out stark, but I don’t want to sugarcoat anything. If we’re going to have a relationship, we have to get this right.
“What if the problem isn’t that you choose work? What if the problem is that you’ve been with people who needed you to choose?”
I blink. “What?”
“Jordan, some of the cases you take on—they’re life-changing for people. Kids who need protection, families being torn apart. How are you supposed to just clock out at five and pretend people aren’t depending on you?”
“That’s… that’s exactly what I’ve always thought. But David said—”
“David was wrong.” Forge’s voice is firm but not angry. “Your dedication to your work isn’t a character flaw. It’s who you are. The problem is that you’ve been with people who saw that dedication as competition instead of seeing it as one of the things that makes you extraordinary.”
Something inside me cracks open at his words. “But I do neglect relationships. I canceled our hiking date for work last week. I’ve done it before, and I’ll probably do it again.”
“You’ve prioritized genuine emergencies involving children’s safety over recreational activities. That’s not choosing work over relationships—that’s being a decent human being who takes her responsibilities seriously. There’s a difference.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he’s saying. “Is there?”
“What would you need from me?” he asks. “In a relationship, I mean. Not what David needed or what anyone else expected, but what would make you feel supported when those genuine emergencies happen?”
The question hangs between us, and I realize no one has ever asked me this before. “I… I don’t know.”
“Think about it. What would make the hard stuff easier?”
I take a sip of the wine, using the time to really consider his question. “I guess… I’d want you to understand that helping people isn’t just what I do; it’s who I am. And I’d want…” I pause, the words feeling vulnerable. “I’d want to find a way to be good at loving someone, too.”
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I stare at him as though he said something in a foreign language. “What does that mean?”
Forge sets down his coffee. “Maybe the solution isn’t choosing between work and love.”
“What do you mean?” I lean forward, genuinely curious.
“Maybe it’s about building something that makes you better at both.” He traces the wood grain of the table with one finger, thinking. “Like how the firehouse makes us better firefighters because we’re a family, not in spite of it.”
“But my work is different. It’s adversarial. It’s—”
“Important to you,” he finishes gently. “And that’s not a flaw, Jordan. If instead of seeing your dedication as a problem to manage, what if we figure out how to make it sustainable?”
I sit back, stunned. “You’re not asking me to work less.”
“Why would I? Your passion for justice is one of the things I lo—” He catches himself. “One of the things I admire most about you.”
The word he almost says hangs in the air between us, bright and dangerous. My pulse stutters, heat pooling low in my chest. If he felt it—if he meant it—I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it, but I can’t bring myself to look away.
“How would we do that?”
“I don’t know yet. But maybe we could brainstorm it. Together.”
The word “together” hits me differently than I expected. My chest gets tight, and I have to blink back sudden tears because the idea of someone wanting to build systems with me instead of asking me to choose feels revolutionary.
“You’d want to do that? Help me figure out how to balance everything?”
“Jordan.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I don’t want you to balance everything. I want to help you build systems that make the hard stuff easier.”
My fingers tighten around his. “What would that look like?”
“Maybe it starts with communication. Maybe next time you get an emergency call, instead of just leaving, you take thirty seconds to say, ‘I have to handle this, but I want to finish our conversation later.’”
“That simple?”
“That’s not simple at all. That’s you choosing to include me in your decision-making instead of just making decisions and hoping I’ll understand.
And this works both ways. Occasionally I get called away on emergencies, just like our first coffee date.
You immediately supported me by driving me back to the station and watching from the sidelines. ”
I nod slowly, feeling something shift inside me. “And maybe I could set some boundaries with clients about when emergencies are actually emergencies.”
“Yes. I wonder if over the years you’ve allowed other people to define what eats into your personal time. Perhaps it’s time for you to reevaluate. And we can figure out ways for me to be supportive when the actual emergencies happen.”
“Like how?”
I can see him warming to this idea, his eyes lighting up as he thinks through the possibilities.
“Like maybe I could bring you dinner at the office when you’re working late. Or maybe we have a code word for when you need to take a work call during personal time, so I know it’s not about avoiding me.”
“You’d really do that?”
His hand reaches over and takes the one I have resting on the table. I don’t pull it away. “Sweetheart, I’d do a lot more than that if it meant building something real with you.”
The endearment slips out so naturally that I don’t think he even realizes he said it, but it makes my cheeks warm and something flutter in my chest.
We sit in a silence that feels comfortable, not empty, the restaurant alive with clinking glasses and low laughter.
His rough, work-worn hand rests over mine, heat seeping into my skin, and it hits me—this is what possible feels like.
Someone who wants to build with me, not strip pieces away.
Maybe this is the start of something real.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For seeing me. All of me. The workaholic lawyer and the woman who wants something more. For not asking me to choose.”
His smile is tender. “Thank you for letting me in.”
The candlelight flickers between us, and I can see the hope in his amber eyes. Hope that we can make this work. Hope that building something together is possible, even when the foundation feels uncertain.
“Ready to head to the workshop?” he asks. “I promise the woodworking portion of tonight will be much less emotional.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, surprising me with how light I feel after such a heavy conversation. “I don’t know. You might cry when you see how bad I am with power tools.”
“Hand tools,” he corrects with a grin. “I value my fingers too much to let you near anything electric on the first lesson.”
“Smart orc.”
As we stand to leave, he helps me with my coat, his hands lingering just a moment at my shoulders. The gesture is old-fashioned and sweet, and it makes me feel cared for in a way I haven’t felt in years.
Walking to his truck, our hands find each other naturally, fingers threading together like they belong that way. The Zone’s streets are quieter now, the evening settling into night, and I realize I’m not scared anymore.
Not of this. Not of him. Not of the possibility that both could be mine—the work I’ve built my life around and the connection I never dared to hope for.
He opens the passenger door for me with that old-fashioned courtesy that makes my stomach flutter. “Ready for the grand tour?” he asks.
“I’ve been curious about this workshop since you first mentioned it,” I admit, settling into the passenger seat.
The drive through the Zone is short, just a few blocks to his building.
As we walk from the truck to the entrance, I’m still taking in this community he’s shown me tonight—the murals, the families, the sense of something built together against impossible odds.