Chapter 6 Tessa
Tessa
Lacee falls asleep with glitter in her hair and a smudge of chocolate on her cheek.
We built volcanoes out of papier-maché tonight. Sawyer pretended not to be impressed when her baking soda lava erupted all over the kitchen island, but I saw the pride in his eyes. He can’t hide it when it comes to her.
He tucks her in first.
I stand in the hallway pretending to wipe down the baseboards just so I can listen. His voice lowers when he talks to her. Soft. Steady. Protective.
“I love you, Lace.”
“I love you more, Dad.”
“Not possible.”
Silence. A kiss on her forehead. The creak of her bedroom door closing. When he turns and sees me standing there, cloth still in my hand, something shifts in his expression.
“You spying?” he asks.
“Monitoring quality control.”
He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell smoke and cedar on his skin.
“How’d I do?”
I tilt my head like I’m inspecting him. “You’re adequate.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Adequate.”
“For a grumpy firefighter.”
He leans against the wall, arms folding across his chest. His biceps flex under the worn cotton of his t-shirt and I have to force my gaze up.
“You keep calling me grumpy,” he says. “I’m going to start charging rent.”
“For what?”
“For living in your head.”
I roll my eyes and brush past him toward the kitchen. He catches my wrist before I can go far. Not rough. Just firm. Intentional.
“You’re not subtle,” he murmurs.
“Neither are you.”
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, slow and distracting.
“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he asks.
Heat floods my chest. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
He steps forward. I step back. My spine hits the counter. There’s nowhere left to retreat.
His voice lowers. “You get quiet when I get close.”
“I’m not quiet.”
“You are right now.”
I swallow. He watches the movement.
“You don’t have to run every time I look at you,” he says softly.
“I’m not running.”
He reaches up, fingers brushing a strand of hair off my cheek.
“Then why are you shaking?”
Because you undo me.
Because you’re older and steady and dangerous in ways I don’t understand.
Because when you look at me like that I forget I’m supposed to be professional.
“I’m not,” I whisper.
He smiles slightly. Not amused. Not mocking. Something else.
“You’re brave with Lacee,” he says. “Confident. I bet you command a room full of ten-year-olds without blinking.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“She’s a kid.”
“And I’m not?” The edge in his tone makes my pulse jump.
He moves closer. Close enough that my breath hits his chest.
“I don’t want to scare you,” he says.
“You don’t.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not true.”
He knows. He sees the way my hands tremble. Not from fear. From want.
He lifts his hand slowly, giving me time to stop him. I don’t. His fingers slide along my jaw, down my neck, stopping just at my collarbone.
“You’re too young for me,” he says quietly.
The words sting.
I push his chest lightly. “You’re the one who keeps stepping closer.”
“That’s the problem.”
“And?”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“So what?”
“So I’ve lived things you haven’t.”
“Don’t assume that.”
His eyes darken. “I’m not assuming,” he says. “I’m protecting you.”
“I don’t need protection.”
He steps back abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yes,” he mutters. “You do.”
I cross my arms. “From you?”
He doesn’t answer. The silence stretches. He turns toward the sink, grips the edge of it like he’s bracing for something.
“You make me forget,” he says finally.
“Forget what?”
“How to be careful.”
I step closer now. “You make me feel steady,” I say quietly. “Like I’m not floating.”
He turns slowly. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll believe you.”
“Good.” The word slips out before I can stop it.
He studies me like I’m something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking for,” he says.
“I’m not asking for anything.”
“You are.”
He closes the distance again. This time slower. His hand settles on my waist. My breath stutters.
“You’re asking me to want you without restraint,” he says. “You’re asking me to forget I’m your employer. That I have a daughter asleep down the hall.”
“I would never cross a line with Lacee.”
“I know.” His voice softens. “That’s what makes this harder.”
I reach up, fingers curling into his shirt.
“You think I don’t feel it?” I whisper. “Every time you walk into a room? Every time you say my name like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like it belongs to you.”
His eyes flash. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
His hand tightens at my waist.
“You want honesty?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I think about you more than I should.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“I imagine what it would feel like to stop pretending,” he continues, voice rougher now. “To kiss you without worrying about consequences.”
“Then do it.” The words are barely air.
He freezes. “Don’t challenge me,” he warns.
“Why? Afraid I won’t be able to handle it?”
That does it. His mouth crashes against mine. Not gentle. But not frantic either.
Controlled. Measured.
Like he’s testing himself.
My hands grip his shoulders. Heat surges through me, sharp and bright.
He kisses me deeper, hand sliding from my waist to the small of my back.
For a moment, the world narrows to breath and heat and the steady thud of his heart under my palm.
Then he pulls away.
Abrupt.
Like he’s touched something that burns.
“This is exactly what I meant,” he says, breathing hard.
“What?”
“You deserve someone uncomplicated.”
“I don’t want uncomplicated.”
“You think that now.”
His hands fall from me. The space between us feels colder than it did before.
“I won’t be the man who takes advantage of you,” he says.
“I’m not being taken advantage of.”
“You’re young.”
“Stop saying that like it’s a flaw.”
“It’s not a flaw,” he snaps. “It’s a fact. You were in high school when I was putting my wife in the ground.”
“And you being widowed is a fact. And you being a father is a fact. And I still want you.”
The words hang heavy in the air. He looks at me like I’ve just struck him.
“You don’t know what that means,” he says quietly.
“Then tell me.”
He shakes his head. “You think this is about restraint?” he asks. “It’s not. It’s about permanence.”
My chest tightens.
“You don’t get to touch me like that and then act like I’m temporary,” I say.
He closes his eyes briefly.
The silence hangs between us, thick and charged. He steps closer one last time, cupping my face gently.
“You scare me,” he says.
“Good.”
His lips twitch. “Not because you’re reckless,” he continues. “Because you matter.”
That undoes me more than the kiss.
“I don’t want to be a phase,” he says. “And I won’t let you be one.”
“I’m not asking to be.”
He exhales slowly. “You make me forget how broken I felt,” he murmurs. “You make this house feel… alive.”
“Then let it be alive.”
He rests his forehead against mine. “For tonight,” he says softly, “we stop here.”
My heart aches. “Because I’m too young?”
He brushes one last kiss against my temple. “Go to bed, Tessa.”
“You first.”
He smiles faintly. “Stubborn.”
“Always.”
We separate reluctantly. The air still hums with everything unsaid.
As I walk toward my room, my lips still tingling, I realize something dangerous:
He didn’t retreat because he doesn’t want me.
He retreated because he does.