Chapter 6 - Max
I've never been one for deep conversations. Ask any of the guys at the station—Max Davidson is good for a joke, a beer, a hand when you need one, but not for baring his soul. I'm the guy who deflects personal questions with humor and who changes the subject when things get too real.
So why the hell did I tell Jennie my life story?
The question follows me all the way home from the hospital, through my apartment door, and straight to the refrigerator where I grab a beer I probably shouldn't have with the painkillers the ER doc prescribed. I set it down unopened and sink onto my couch instead, wincing as my shoulder protests.
Something about her—those eyes, the way she held herself like someone who understood what it meant to be hurt by someone who should have protected you—broke through defenses I've maintained for many years. Words I never speak just tumbled out, and instead of the usual regret I feel when I've revealed too much, there was only... relief.
Relief and something else. Something that tightens my chest when I think about her ex-boyfriend slapping her around, raising a fist near her baby's crib. A red-hot anger that makes me wish the bastard would show up in Cedar Falls just so I could teach him what happens to men who hurt women and children.
"Women must be protected," my father would say, with spectacular hypocrisy, after beating my mother until she couldn't stand. No wonder she left us a few months before I did.
The one lesson of his I actually took to heart, though I understood it differently than he did. In my world, protecting doesn't mean controlling. It means making sure they're safe enough to make their own choices.
And Jennie has clearly been fighting for that safety, that autonomy, moving from town to town with her little girl, trying to outrun the shadow of a man who couldn't love without destroying.
I grab my phone, needing to talk to someone who won't give me endless shit for having feelings. Lewis would never let me live it down, Chief and Grant would analyze me to death, and Ollis... well, Ollis has his own demons these days. That leaves Ethan.
He picks up on the third ring.
"Davidson? It's almost midnight, man. Someone better be dead or dying."
"Sorry," I say, suddenly realizing the time. "I can call tomorrow."
"Nah, I'm up now," Ethan yawns. "What's going on? You sound weird."
I hesitate, unsure how to even begin. "There was a fire today. Mrs. Beaumont's place on Maple."
"I heard," Ethan says. "A young woman got caught in the cottage out back, right?"
"Yeah," I confirm. "She's new in town. Single mom with a one-year-old. She was looking at renting the cottage when the main house caught fire."
Ethan waits, knowing there's more to this midnight call than a routine fire report.
"I went in after her," I continue. "Against orders."
There's a pause. "That's... not like you. Breaking protocol, I mean. Going in after someone is exactly like you."
"I know," I admit. "That's why I'm calling. I can't get her off my mind, Ethan. What the hell is happening to me?"
A low chuckle comes through the phone. "Well, well. Has the unflappable Max Davidson finally met his match?"
"I'm serious," I protest. "I've known her for like three days, and I'm already breaking rules, telling her things I never tell anyone, fantasizing about punching her ex-boyfriend in the face—"
"Whoa, back up," Ethan interrupts. "Her ex-boyfriend?"
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "She's on the run from an abusive ex. Been moving from town to town for months. The guy used to slap her around, and when he threatened their baby, she took off."
"Jesus," Ethan breathes. "That's rough."
"Yeah," I agree. "And here's the really crazy part—I told her about my dad, Ethan. About running away at fifteen. About Brock finding me. All of it."
The line is silent for a moment. Ethan knows how rarely I discuss my past, having heard the full story exactly once in all the years we've been friends.
"Okay," he finally says. "So, you've got it bad. Really bad."
"I don't 'got' anything," I argue weakly. "I'm just... concerned about a new resident of Cedar Falls."
Ethan's laugh is warmer this time. "Sure you are, buddy. Look, I'm no expert, but after a month with Naomi, I can tell you one thing—if you're feeling this way, don't fight it. Dive in. Love is the best thing in the world when it's right."
I nearly drop the phone. "Love? Who said anything about love? And since when are you some romance guru? You were practically allergic to relationships until Naomi surprised you with a pregnancy."
"I know, I know," Ethan admits, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "I can't believe it either. But it's worth it, Max. Worth every terrifying, vulnerable moment. Worth changing everything for."
"I don't even know if she's interested," I mutter. "She's got enough on her plate without adding my issues to the mix."
"Maybe let her decide that," Ethan suggests. "Just... be honest with her. The way you apparently already have been, telling her your deepest, darkest secrets three days after meeting her."
"Shut up," I grumble, but there's no heat in it.
"Look, I gotta go—Naomi’s giving me the eye. The good one, not the disapproval one. But call me tomorrow, let me know how it goes with the chief. You're definitely in for it after breaking protocol."
I groan, having momentarily forgotten that particular consequence.
"Yeah, 8 AM meeting. It's gonna be a blast."
"You'll survive," Ethan assures me. "You always do. And hey, Max?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you called. And I'm glad you found someone worth breaking the rules for."
The call ends, leaving me in the quiet of my apartment with Ethan's words echoing in my head. I'm not in love. That's ridiculous. I'm just... concerned. Intrigued. Attracted, sure. But love? That's for people like Ethan and Naomi, or his brothers, people who have their lives together, who know how to be someone's partner.
Not for me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Still, as I get ready for bed, wincing at the pull in my shoulder, I can't help remembering the way Jennie looked at me when she called me a hero, the blush that spread across her cheeks, the genuine concern in her eyes when she asked about my injury.
It's been a long time since someone looked at me like that—like I mattered beyond what I could do for them in the moment. Like they saw past the easygoing firefighter to the person underneath.
I fall asleep thinking about hazel eyes and a small voice shouting "faya!" and wondering if maybe, just maybe, Ethan is right.
The next day
Chief Brock's office is neat, as always—the desk is precisely arranged, and awards and certificates are hung on the wall, not a speck of dust anywhere. The man himself sits behind the desk, face impassive as I take the chair across from him.
"Davidson," he greets me, nodding at my shoulder. "How's the injury?"
"Minor, sir," I reply. "Just a sprain. Doctor says a week or so."
Brock nods again, then leans back in his chair. For a long moment, he just looks at me, and I resist the urge to fidget like a schoolboy called to the principal's office.
"You disobeyed a direct order yesterday," he finally says, his voice level. "Left your assigned victim with Lewis, entered a secondary structure without backup, compromised the operational integrity of an ongoing emergency response." He pauses. "You know the protocols as well as anyone on this crew. Better than most."
"Yes, sir," I acknowledge, not offering excuses. There aren't any, really.
"You're one of my best firefighters, Davidson. Smart, skilled, reliable. I don't worry about you making rookie mistakes." His eyes narrow. "Which means this wasn't a mistake. It was a choice."
I meet his gaze directly. "Yes, sir, it was."
"Explain."
I consider my words. "When I heard someone might be in the cottage, and that it might be Jennie and her baby, I couldn't... I didn't want to leave it to chance. Grant is a fantastic firefighter, sir, but he didn't know who he was looking for."
"And you did?" Brock raises an eyebrow. "How well do you know this woman?"
"Not well," I admit. "But well enough to know she's been through a lot. That she and her daughter deserve a break."
Brock stares at me. "Are you involved with her?"
"No, sir."
"But you want to be."
It's not a question, and I don't treat it as one. Brock's always had an uncanny ability to see through me.
He sighs, rubbing his temple. "Davidson, I've known you since you were a scrappy teenager sleeping on my station couch. I saw you grow from an angry kid with no direction to one of the finest firefighters I've ever trained. So I need you to tell me the truth… Are you slipping back?"
The words hit hard, as he knew they would. Brock rarely references our shared history, the debt between us that can never be fully repaid.
"I'm not," I say firmly. "This wasn't about acting out or thrill-seeking. It was the opposite. It was about protecting someone who needed it."
"At the expense of protocols designed to keep everyone safe," Brock counters. "Including you, including your team."
"I know," I acknowledge. "And I accept whatever disciplinary action you deem appropriate."
Brock's expression softens slightly. "This woman—Jennie—she must be something special to get past your defenses. You've been keeping people at arm's length since I met you."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't.
"If she's managed to crack that wall you built," Brock continues, "she's probably worth fighting for."
The echo of Ethan's words from last night startles me. "Sir?"
"You heard me," Brock says. "But if you're going to pursue this, do it right. No more rebel antics on my fire ground. Clear? I know sometimes it’s hard to keep things separated, and I’d probably run into that fire myself if it were my daughter there, but we have rules for a reason."
"Yes, sir," I reply, still processing his unexpected shift in tone.
"As for disciplinary action—you're off duty for the next week until that shoulder heals and we've had time to review the incident fully. Paid leave, not suspension. And I want you at the training session next Thursday to discuss proper protocol with the new recruits. Use yourself as an example of what not to do."
"Understood, sir."
Brock leans forward, his expression serious again. "One more thing, Davidson. If this woman and her child are important to you, remember that they need stability. Safety. Structure. All the things you’ve been fighting against for a while."
"I know that," I say, an unexpected defensiveness rising. "She has a daughter. I'm not stupid enough to think I can just—"
"I'm not suggesting you are," Brock interrupts. "But I am suggesting you need to be clear about what you're offering. Do you even know if you're ready to be a father figure?"
The question lands like a punch to the gut. "I... no. I have no idea how to be a father. Not with the example I had."
"Then maybe that's something to figure out before you dive in," Brock says, his tone gentler. "Do you even know if this woman is looking for a boyfriend? Or a father for her child?"
"No," I admit. "I don't know what she wants. I'm not even sure what I want."
Brock nods as if I've confirmed something for him. "Then maybe that's where you start. Don't think so far ahead. If you're interested in her, focus on that. The rest will either come naturally or it won't."
"When did you become a relationship counselor?" I ask, unable to help myself.
Brock's mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile. "Did you forget I was once married? And, well, she might be in college, but I still have a daughter.” He chuckles and gestures to the door. "Now get out of here. Rest that shoulder. And try not to break any more protocols this week."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
As I leave Brock's office, I'm struck by how differently this meeting went than I expected. No shouting, no threats of unpaid leave, just... concern and what almost sounded like blessing.
I exit the station into the bright morning sunshine, squinting against the light. It's just past 8:30, and I have a whole day, a whole week, stretching before me with no shifts to work. The enforced freedom feels strange—I usually fill my off-duty hours with side jobs, helping Ethan at his ranch or doing small home repairs around town.
Most of those options are off the table with my shoulder in a sling. Maybe I'll finally fix that leaky faucet in my bathroom or catch up on the shows Lewis is always badgering me to watch.
But as I approach my apartment building, all thoughts of home repairs and Netflix binges vanish from my mind.
Jennie is sitting on the steps leading to my second-floor unit, Amelia nowhere in sight, a small white bakery box balanced on her knees. She's wearing jeans and a soft-looking blue sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back severely as it has been every time I've seen her.
She looks up as my boots scuff the gravel, and a tentative smile appears on her face.
"Hey," she calls softly.
"Hey yourself," I reply, climbing the stairs to join her. "This is unexpected. How did you know where I live?"
"Mrs. Gunderson," she explains, rising to her feet with the box. "Hope that's okay. I wanted to thank you properly."
"No thanks necessary," I assure her. "How are you feeling? They let you out already?"
"This morning," she nods. "Clean bill of health, no lasting damage. Amelia's with Mrs. Gunderson—she insisted on watching her while I ran some errands." She holds out the box. "These are for you. Mrs. G said they're your favorites."
I take the box, recognizing the logo from Cedar Falls Bakery. "Maple pecan scones?" I guess, catching a whiff of the sweet, buttery aroma.
"With extra maple glaze," Jennie confirms, that tentative smile growing more confident. "A very small token of appreciation for saving my life."
"Still just doing my job," I say, but I'm smiling too. "But I'll never turn down scones. Would you... would you like to come in? I can make coffee."
She hesitates, and I immediately wonder if I've overstepped. Maybe she just wanted to drop off the thank-you gift and be on her way.
"Only if you're sure I'm not imposing," she says finally. "You must be tired after your meeting with the chief."
I raise an eyebrow. "I’m pretty good, don’t worry."
She blushes slightly. "You can be honest. I know you’re in trouble because of me."
"Not because of you," I correct, unlocking my door and holding it open for her. "Because of my own choices. And it wasn't as bad as I expected. Just some time off to heal."
Jennie steps past me into the apartment, and I'm suddenly aware of how sparse it is—functional furniture, minimal decorations, nothing that really says 'home'. It's a place to sleep, to shower, to store my stuff between shifts. Not somewhere I've ever put much thought into.
"Sorry about the lack of... well, everything," I say, setting the scone box on the kitchen counter. "I'm not here much."
"It's nice," she says politely, taking in the open floor plan with its combined living room and kitchen. "Very... streamlined."
I chuckle at her diplomatic description. "It's a bachelor pad and we both know it. Coffee?"
"Please," she accepts, moving to the window that overlooks the small town park across the street. "You have a nice view."
"One of the perks," I agree, measuring grounds into the coffee maker. "Along with being walking distance to the station and Lou's."
As the coffee brews, I open the bakery box and arrange the scones on a plate I'm relieved to find clean.
"So," I say, leaning against the counter. "How's Amelia doing after all the excitement?"
"Surprisingly well," Jennie replies, turning from the window. "She slept through the night at the hospital, and this morning she was her usual cheerful self. Kids are resilient, I guess."
"That they are," I agree, thinking of my own childhood resilience. "And the cottage? Still planning to take it?"
She nods. "Mrs. Beaumont was discharged earlier and came to see me. She insisted that I take it and said she's been looking for a responsible tenant for months. We're signing the lease tomorrow, and I can move in as soon as the fire inspector clears it."
"That's great," I say, genuinely pleased. "It's a nice place. Good neighborhood."
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour two mugs, then look up to find her watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Milk? Sugar?" I offer.
"Both, please. Just a little."
I make her coffee and hand it to her.
"Thank you," she says, and I know she means for more than the coffee.
"You're welcome," I reply.
We stand there for a moment, the morning sunlight streaming through the window, the scent of coffee and maple scones filling the air, something unspoken but powerful building in the space between us.
"Max," she begins, just as I say, "Jennie."
We both laugh, the tension easing slightly.
"You first," I offer.
She takes a deep breath. "I just wanted to say that what you did yesterday... it meant a lot to me. Not just the rescue, but... after. Coming to the hospital. Talking to me. Sharing your story." She looks down at her coffee. "I don't trust easily. Not anymore. But something about you makes me want to try."
Her honesty steals my words for a brief moment. When I find my voice, I realize I want to match her candor with my own.
"I don't talk about my past," I tell her. "Ever. Ask any of the guys at the station—I deflect, I joke, I change the subject. But with you... it felt right. Natural." I set my coffee down, needing my hand free to run through my hair in a nervous gesture. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, Jennie. And that scares the hell out of me."
Her eyes widen, and for a terrible moment, I think I've said too much, moved too fast. Then a small smile curves her lips.
"Me too," she admits quietly. "Both the thinking and the being scared parts."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by uncertainty. "So what do we do about it?"
She seems to consider the question carefully, sipping her coffee before answering.
"I don't know," she says honestly. "I came to Cedar Falls to escape, to find safety for Amelia. I wasn't looking for... complications."
"I'm definitely a complication," I acknowledge with a wry smile.
"But maybe," she continues, "maybe that's okay. Maybe we just... see what happens? Take it slow?"
It's more than I expected, this openness to possibility. "I'd like that," I say. "Slow sounds perfect."
She smiles, a real smile that reaches her eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "Good. Now how about those scones? They smelled amazing in the bakery, and I haven't had breakfast yet."
"Coming right up," I say, grabbing the plate and leading her to the small dining table by the window. "Fair warning—once you try these scones, all other baked goods will be ruined for you forever."
"I'll take that chance," Jennie laughs, setting her coffee down and taking a seat.
As we share breakfast in the sunlit corner of my too-empty apartment, I find myself imagining what it would be like to have this more often—not just food and coffee, but conversation, laughter, the simple pleasure of someone's company that I actually want.
It's a dangerous thought, one that leads to others even more dangerous—Amelia's toys scattered across my living room floor, a shelf of children's books next to my firefighting manuals, Jennie's clothes hanging beside mine in the closet.
But for once, I don't immediately shut those thoughts down. Instead, I let them hover at the edges of my mind as I listen to Jennie talk about the cottage, about her plans to make it a home for her and Amelia.
Slow, I remind myself. We're taking this slow.
But as she laughs at something I've said, her face lighting up in a way that makes my heart actually skip a beat, I can't help but wonder if "slow" is going to be possible when everything inside me wants to dive headfirst into whatever this is.
Ethan's words echo in my mind: "Love is the best thing in the world when it's right."
Too soon to think about love, I tell myself firmly. Way too soon.
But maybe, just maybe, it's exactly the right time to think about possibilities.