Chapter 18 #3
This is the male who built systems with me instead of asking me to choose between work and relationships.
Who waited patiently every time I panicked and ran.
Who sees my workaholic tendencies as dedication, not a character flaw.
Who looked at me tonight and saw something I couldn’t see—a bond forming, destiny clicking into place—and still gave me the choice.
Every divorce case I’ve handled, including my own, taught me what love isn’t. It isn’t manipulation or control. It isn’t one person constantly sacrificing while the other takes. It isn’t fear disguised as protection.
But Forge… Forge has taught me what love is.
It’s patience when I’m difficult. It’s pride in my victories. It’s building something together that’s stronger than what either of us could create alone. It’s choosing each other, every single day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
I think about the morning I fled his apartment, terrified of wanting too much. How he didn’t chase me, didn’t guilt me, just… waited. Sent patient messages. Gave me space to work through my fear. And when I finally came back, he welcomed me without making me grovel for forgiveness.
I think about tonight—how proud I felt introducing him to my colleagues. How right it felt having him by my side. How that moment at his truck, when his hand touched mine and something fundamental shifted in the universe, didn’t scare me. It felt like coming home.
A soulbond means forever. No escape clause, no divorce lawyer, no way out if I get scared again.
But maybe that’s exactly what I need. Not a way out, but a reason to stay. Not a contract with loopholes, but a promise that can’t be broken—not by fear, not by panic, not by the ghost of my failed marriage.
I’m a divorce lawyer who’s seen every way love can go wrong. But standing here with Forge, feeling the truth of what we have thrumming between us like a living thing, I know with absolute certainty that this is what love looks like when it goes right.
“That’s what I want,” I tell him, certainty ringing in my voice. “I want all of you, Forge. Forever.”
His eyes blaze with heat and promise. “Then let’s get out of here. Because once I get you home, I’m not letting you go until you’re completely, permanently mine.”
My breath catches at the certainty in his voice, the possessive promise. “Yes.”
That single word is all he needs.
We make polite excuses to Patricia and the other partners, but I can barely focus on the conversations. All I can think about is the certainty in Forge’s eyes and the way his hand stays protectively on my back as we say our goodbyes.
The drive to his apartment in the Zone is charged with anticipation. His hand rests on my thigh, his thumb stroking small circles through the silk of my dress, and I have to use all my concentration to breathe normally.
“Nervous?” he asks as we pull into his parking space.
“No,” I say. It’s true. “I should be, shouldn’t I? This is a big step. But I’m not nervous. I’m ready.”
“Good,” he says simply, then gets out to come around and help me from the truck.
We’ve been here before, two months ago, but everything feels different now. More charged, more certain. Back then, it was impulse and overwhelming attraction. Tonight, it’s choice and trust and the kind of deep wanting that comes from really knowing someone.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks once we’re inside, but his voice is distracted, like he’s having trouble focusing on anything but me standing here in his apartment.
“Maybe Later,” I say, setting my clutch on his coffee table and turning to face him. “Right now, I just want you.”
That breaks his careful control. In two steps, he’s crossing the room and pulling me into his arms, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that’s desperate and claiming and perfect. I melt into him, my hands fisting in his tuxedo jacket as I try to get closer.
His hands find the zipper of my dress, sliding it down with agonizing slowness. When the silk pools at my feet, leaving me in just my black lace lingerie, I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“Fucking perfect,” he growls, his hands skimming over my shoulders. “Did you wear this for me?”
“Yes,” I admit, already breathless. “I hoped tonight would end like this.”
His phone erupts with a harsh, urgent ringtone that cuts through the moment like a knife. We both freeze, still pressed against each other, as the sound fills his apartment.
“Damn,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. “That’s the emergency line.”
“Answer it,” I say immediately, stepping back even though every instinct screams to ignore the call.
He looks at me for a moment, conflict clear in his eyes, then grabs his phone. “Ironwood.”
I can hear the dispatcher’s voice, urgent and professional, though I can’t make out the words. I watch Forge’s expression shift from desire to focused intensity.
“How many trapped?” he asks, already moving toward his bedroom. “ETA to scene?”
I follow him, watching as he strips out of his tuxedo with practiced efficiency and pulls on jeans and a department t-shirt. The transformation from elegant date to professional firefighter takes less than two minutes.
“I have to go,” he says, pausing to cup my face in his hands. “There’s a warehouse fire downtown, multiple people trapped. They called in all units. I’m so sorry, Jordan. The timing is—”
“Terrible,” I finish. “But go! I understand completely. People need you. This is what you do. I’ll be here when you return. I’m not going anywhere.”
He kisses me hard and fast, then he’s gone, leaving me standing in his bedroom in my lingerie, surrounded by the lingering scent of his cologne and the echo of sirens in the distance.
I sink onto his bed, still wearing my heels, and a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest. Not bitter, not angry—just ruefully amused.
These past months we’ve been so worried about my work interrupting our personal time.
We discussed systems and boundaries and how to handle my client emergencies.
He’d mentioned this was a two-way street.
Obviously, our first coffee date ended because he was called in on his day off to respond.
But we never really discussed how being in love with a firefighter means that duty calls at the worst possible moments.
The irony is almost perfect. Here I am, half-naked in his apartment, waiting for him to come back from risking his life for strangers. And for the first time, I truly understand what it means to be with someone whose calling puts them in danger.
The reality of loving a firefighter crashes over me with stunning clarity. Every call could be the one that doesn’t end well. Every warehouse fire, every burning building, every rescue—he’s the one running toward danger while everyone else runs away.
The statistics flash through my lawyer brain unbidden: firefighter injury rates, line-of-duty deaths, the dangers of smoke inhalation and structural collapse. I push the thoughts away, but they linger like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore.
But as I settle in to wait, kicking off my heels, pulling one of his shirts over my head and curling up in his bed, I realize something important: I’m not running away. I’m not making this about me or my needs. I’m just… here. Waiting for him to come home safely.
Maybe we can both have jobs that demand sacrifices. Maybe love isn’t about avoiding those demands, but about supporting each other through them.