Chapter 11
ELEVEN
CORD
By the time I slumped onto the bench by my locker, I was running on fumes and caffeine—and not even the good kind.
Two full days of calls, including one real kitchen fire, a flood at the middle school gym, and Twitch getting himself stuck on a porch roof trying to save a cat that absolutely did not want saving.
The bruises on his ego were way worse than the ones on his shins.
The crew was half-scattered through the bay, hauling out gear for the elementary school tour. I should’ve been focused—field trips meant crowd control, endless questions, and at least one kid asking to try the siren. But I reached for my phone instead.
Habit.
Hope.
Still nothing.
I thumbed the screen, even though I already knew. No new notifications. Just my message, sent two nights ago, sitting there like a question nobody wanted to answer.
Cord:
Had a great time. Would love to see you again.
Simple. Friendly. No pressure.
She’d seen it. I was sure she had. I’d even caught the dots once—typing… and then nothing.
I told myself not to read into it. People got busy. She had work, responsibilities. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she meant to answer and forgot. Hell, maybe she fell asleep before she could hit send.
I tried to believe that. I really did.
But by now, I was starting to feel the difference between busy… and avoiding.
Maybe she woke up the next morning and changed her mind. Decided it was a fun night and nothing more. Maybe it was the auction thing—maybe it felt transactional to her, no matter how good it got after.
And it had been good.
She’d invited me in.
She’d wanted me there.
And I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since.
I blew out a breath, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, watching the boots of my crew scuff across the concrete.
That kiss had felt like more. That night had felt like more. But maybe it was only more to me.
The bay was ready—hoses coiled, gear lined up, the engine polished to a mirror shine thanks to Moose’s compulsive need for order. Twitch was by the big doors already practicing his best “Hi there, future firefighters!” wave like we hadn’t all mocked him for it last year.
Donkey handed me a coffee that tasted vaguely like regret and cardboard. “You think we get the screamer this time or the clinger? ”
“Always both,” I muttered, sipping anyway.
The bus turned into the lot with the familiar squeal of brakes, that bright yellow rectangle of chaos pulling up like it belonged here.
Which, in a way, it did. Huckleberry Creek only had one elementary school.
We’d done this field trip a dozen times—show the gear, let them sit in the truck, field a hundred questions about fire poles and whether we actually eat chili every day.
Another day, another batch of wide-eyed kids and juice-sticky fingers.
The doors hissed open.
And then Lucy stepped off the bus with that same calm authority I’d seen when she wrangled nerves into charm over candlelight. Clipboard in hand. Sunglasses on. She wore that teacher-focus like armor. Calm. Capable. Beautiful.
And just like that, the breath left my lungs.
She hadn’t seen me yet, her attention on organizing the stream of bouncing six-year-olds into something that resembled a line.
Of course. Elementary school. She’d told me. I just hadn’t done the math. Or maybe I hadn’t let myself even consider that she could be part of today’s group.
Donkey followed my gaze. “That her?”
I was too stunned to lie. “Yeah.”
The knot that had been sitting in my chest all morning pulled tighter.
She was here. And I was about to find out if our weekend had meant anything at all.
She turned and clapped once, sharp and light. “All right, my friends—what do we remember about listening ears and walking feet?”
A chorus of “Yes, Miss Sullivan!” answered back.
She flashed a sunny smile and started leading the line down the sidewalk toward us. Hair up. Sleeves rolled. That loose button-down fluttering in the breeze like she didn’t even notice how damn good she looked.
Then her gaze lifted.
I knew the second she spotted me. That steady stride faltered by half a step—blink and you’d miss it—but her whole expression shifted. Not startled. Not even shy.
Just… aware.
And when she smiled, it wasn’t the one she gave the kids or the other teachers trailing behind her. It was the one from Saturday night.
Soft. Warm. Personal.
Hey, you.
And just like that, I was back in that kitchen. Her hands on my chest. Her breath catching under mine.
Jesus .
She turned back to her ducklings, all grace and composure, but I was still standing there like an idiot, wondering how a clipboard and a ponytail could hit harder than lingerie.
I wanted to talk to her. Hell, I wanted to pull her aside, ask what happened, why the silence. Make sure I hadn’t hallucinated the whole damn night we’d had.
But the bay was already echoing with the chaos of tiny feet and a thousand overlapping voices.
“Are we gonna slide down the pole?”
“Is that a real fire hose?”
“Can I wear the hat?”
Teachers were doing their best to coral the herd, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with a broom. Lucy was in it—directing traffic, answering questions, stopping one kid from licking the doorframe.
She stepped past me without slowing down. I thought maybe that was it .
Then her fingers brushed my forearm. Light. Barely there.
But deliberate.
I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just felt it.
A quiet, hey .
Not a blow-off. Not a mistake. Not a regret.
Just… not yet.
Something in my chest let go, slow and steady, like a muscle unclenching I hadn’t realized I’d been holding tight.
She hadn’t disappeared.
I didn’t know what it meant—not really—but I’d take it.
And when she looked back over her shoulder and gave me that small, knowing smile?
Yeah. I was still in this.
Chief gave me the signal from across the bay—two fingers tapped and a nod that said you’re up.
I took a breath, pasted on my firehouse demo smile, and pitched my voice just enough to cut through the buzz of six-year-old energy. “Alright, future firefighters. You ready to see some real gear?”
A chorus of “YEAH!” rang out like we’d just announced free ice cream.
Moose bounded forward, but the second he started unstrapping the turnout gear, he got the Velcro tangled and nearly fell over trying to wrestle it off. The kids howled.
Donkey stepped in with the thermal imaging camera, flipped it around, and made a big show of pretending to scan for ghosts. “We’ve got a hot spot behind Twitch’s big head—might be a ghost with snack privileges.”
More laughter. One kid gasped, clutched her friend’s arm, and whispered, “A ghost?”
The bay echoed with delighted chaos, and for a few minutes, I let myself get caught up in it—explaining hoses and oxygen tanks, passing around a radio, letting them all shout “Firefighter One reporting for duty!” into it.
But every few seconds, my eyes drifted back to Lucy.
She stood near the back, clipboard tucked under one arm, calming a boy whose shoelace had turned into a tripping hazard. Her voice was low, her smile gentle, her presence somehow bigger than her frame.
She was steady. Collected. And quietly radiant.
I watched the way one of her students leaned against her leg like it was second nature. The way she smoothed a hand over the girl’s head without missing a beat in conversation.
God, she was beautiful.
I turned back to the kids as one of them tugged on my sleeve, demanding to know how many fires I’d fought “on the moon.”
“I’ll tell you,” I said with a wink, “but only if you promise to eat all your vegetables.”
They booed me with the kind of joy only six-year-olds can muster.
I laughed with them. Gave them a little more show.
But somewhere underneath the layers of charm and jokes and kid-friendly explanations, my brain was still circling one thought: I can wait. Just don’t let this be the end of it.