Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Connie
A week has passed since the fire, since Dagger carried me from the flames and into a life I never imagined.
Tomorrow I return to work, to twenty-six kindergarteners who've missed me, to colleagues who'll have questions about the bruise-like mark Dagger left on my neck, to a world that operates by different rules than the intimate bubble we've created here.
I fold newly purchased clothes into the dresser drawer he cleared for me, each action domestic and surreal at once.
How is it possible to feel so settled with someone after only seven days?
How is it possible to imagine a future with a man who was a stranger when the month began?
The apartment no longer feels foreign. I know which floorboards creak, which cabinet holds the mugs, how to adjust the temperamental shower.
I've learned Dagger's routines—the way he makes coffee first thing, how he checks his phone for work updates before even getting out of bed, the careful way he lays out his clothes the night before.
Small intimacies that accumulate into something that feels dangerously like home.
I run my fingers over the soft cotton of a new blouse, tags still attached.
Dagger insisted on replacing my entire wardrobe, waving away my protests about cost with the same dismissive gesture he uses whenever I suggest I might be a burden.
The pile of classroom supplies sits by the door—also his doing.
When I mentioned worrying about my students, he appeared the next day with bags from the teacher supply store, having somehow intuited exactly what a kindergarten teacher would need.
"You missed a spot," his deep voice rumbles from the doorway.
I turn to find him leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his massive chest, eyes warm as they take me in. He's wearing jeans and a simple black t-shirt, but he might as well be in full firefighter gear for the heroic figure he cuts.
"What spot?" I ask, glancing at the nearly organized drawer.
He crosses to me in three long strides, reaching past me to adjust a folded sweater, his chest pressing against my back. "There," he says, his breath hot against my ear. "Perfect."
The double meaning isn't lost on me. The way he says "perfect" makes it clear he's not talking about the drawer. His arms encircle my waist, drawing me back against him, his chin resting on top of my head.
"Nervous about tomorrow?" he asks, always eerily attuned to my moods.
"A little," I admit. "It's going to be strange, going back to normal life after... everything."
His arms tighten fractionally. "This is normal life now," he says with that certainty I both envy and fear. "You, me, together."
Is it, though? Is anything about this situation normal? We've been living in a state of exception—me displaced by disaster, him on leave from work, both of us cocooned in this apartment with nothing but each other and our inexplicable connection.
"What happens when you go back to work?" I ask, voicing just one of the practical concerns I've been avoiding. "When you're fighting fires and I'm teaching kindergarten and we're not just... existing in this bubble?"
He turns me in his arms, tilting my face up to his. "Nothing changes," he says simply. "This isn't temporary, Connie."
I want to believe him. Want to believe that what we've found is real and lasting. But doubt creeps in, persistent as smoke.
"Dagger, we met because you rescued me. That creates a certain... dynamic. Sometimes people confuse gratitude or trauma bonding with deeper feelings."
His jaw tightens. "Is that what you think this is? You feeling grateful? Me getting off on playing hero?"
"No, I—"
"Because I've rescued hundreds of people, Connie. Never once brought any of them home. Never once looked at any of them and felt like someone had reached into my chest and grabbed my heart."
The raw honesty in his voice makes my eyes sting. "I'm trying to be realistic," I whisper. "This happened so fast. It's hard to trust something that feels so... overwhelming."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by determination. Without warning, he scoops me up, one arm behind my knees, the other supporting my back—the same way he carried me from the fire. He deposits me on the bed, following me down, caging me with his body.
"You think this isn't real?" he asks, his voice low and intense. "You think what I feel for you is just some rescue fantasy?"
The heat in his gaze makes me shiver. "I don't know what to think," I admit. "All I know is that no one has ever wanted me the way you seem to. It's hard to believe."
Something shifts in his expression—tenderness replacing intensity. "Let me show you," he says, his voice gentling. "Let me prove it to you."
He kisses me then, but not with the demanding passion I've grown accustomed to. This kiss is achingly tender, his lips moving against mine with reverence. His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones as if I'm something precious, something to be cherished.
"I see you, Connie," he murmurs against my lips. "Not just the woman I pulled from a fire. Not just a body in my bed. I see you."
His words pierce through my defenses. He begins to undress me with slow, deliberate movements, nothing like the frantic urgency of our previous encounters. Each newly exposed inch of skin receives attention—a kiss, a caress, a whispered endearment.
When I'm naked beneath him, he sits back on his heels, eyes roaming over me with such blatant appreciation that I resist the urge to cover myself.
"So beautiful," he says, tracing a finger along my collarbone, down between my breasts, across the soft expanse of my stomach. "Every inch of you. Perfect."
He sheds his own clothes, his powerful body revealed in the soft evening light filtering through the windows. The sight of him still takes my breath away—the broad shoulders, the sculpted chest tapering to narrow hips, the thick thighs and impressive evidence of his desire for me.
He lowers himself over me again, skin to skin, our bodies aligning perfectly despite our size difference. His weight should feel oppressive; instead, it grounds me, anchors me to this moment, to him.
"Feel this," he says, guiding my hand to his chest, to the thundering of his heart. "This is what you do to me. Just being near you. Just looking at you."
He rolls us so I'm straddling him, my thighs spread across his hips, my softness pressing against his hardness. His hands span my waist, supporting but not controlling.
"Take what you need," he urges. "Show me how to make you believe."
The position is new—he's always been the one in control, setting the pace, directing our pleasure. Now he's offering me the reins, watching me with heated anticipation as I hesitantly begin to move against him.
I brace my hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath my palms as I rock against his length. His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples, drawing a gasp from my lips.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice strained with restraint. "So beautiful like this. Taking your pleasure. Taking what's yours."
What's mine. The concept is novel—that this gorgeous, powerful man considers himself mine as much as he considers me his. I lift myself slightly, positioning him at my entrance, then slowly sink down, taking him inch by delicious inch until he's fully seated within me.
"Fuck," he groans, his hands tightening on my hips. "You feel so good. So perfect around me."
I begin to move, setting a rhythm that's both teasing and satisfying. His eyes never leave mine, watching every expression, every reaction. There's something profoundly intimate about this—being so exposed, so vulnerable, yet feeling so powerful as I watch pleasure transform his features.
"I never believed in this," he says suddenly, the words seemingly torn from him. "Never believed in finding someone who'd fit me so perfectly. Who'd see past the surface. Who'd make me feel like I finally found home."
His raw confession breaks something open inside me. I lean down, pressing my forehead to his, our breath mingling as our bodies move together.
"I'm falling in love with you," he whispers against my lips. "Never said that to anyone before. Never felt it before. But I'm falling in love with you, Connie Evans."
Tears spring to my eyes, unexpected and overwhelming. No one has ever said those words to me and meant them the way he does—with absolute certainty, with bone-deep conviction.
"I'm scared," I admit, my voice breaking. "Scared of how much I feel. How much I need you already."
He rolls us again, taking control, his body covering mine, surrounding me. "Don't be scared," he says, beginning to move within me with slow, deep thrusts that make me gasp. "I've got you. Always going to have you."
The pleasure builds between us, intensified by the emotional vulnerability, by the words we've spoken. His movements become more urgent, more focused, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading them wider, driving deeper.
"Say it," he urges, his eyes locked on mine. "Say what you're feeling. What you're afraid to admit."
I know what he wants. What I want too, despite my fears. "I'm falling in love with you," I whisper, the truth of it washing through me like a wave. "So fast. Too fast. But I can't stop it."
His response is a growl of satisfaction, his thrusts becoming more powerful, more possessive. One hand slides between us, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes me cry out.
"Come for me," he demands, circling his fingers in the precise way he's already learned drives me wild. "Come for me while you say it again."
The dual stimulation is too much. I feel the tension coiling tighter, my body climbing toward release. "I'm falling in love with you," I gasp, the words punctuated by moans as pleasure overwhelms me.
"Again," he insists, his own release clearly imminent, his movements becoming erratic.
"I love you," I cry as the first wave of orgasm crashes over me. "Dagger, I love you."
My admission triggers his climax. He comes with a roar of my name, his body shuddering against mine, within mine, our pleasure feeding into each other's in an endless loop of sensation.
In the aftermath, he gathers me close, his large body curled protectively around mine. His hand strokes my hair, my back, my hip—soothing, claiming, cherishing.
"Believe me now?" he asks, his voice rumbling beneath my ear where it rests on his chest.
I nod, too overwhelmed for words. What we have defies logic, defies timelines, defies explanation. But it's real. As real as the steady heartbeat beneath my cheek, as real as the warmth of his body enveloping mine.
"I've never felt this way before," I confess into the quiet darkness of the room. "Like I belong to someone. With someone."
His arms tighten around me. "You do," he says simply. "You belong with me. To me. And I belong to you."
Tomorrow I'll return to work. Tomorrow we'll begin navigating the complexities of merging our separate lives. Tomorrow reality will intrude on the sanctuary we've created.
But tonight, I allow myself to believe in this impossible thing we've found—this connection that blazed to life in the midst of destruction. This love that defies explanation but exists nonetheless, as certain as the strong arms holding me and the steady heart beating beneath my ear.