Chapter 5
chapter five
Sadie
I stand in the kitchen with a dish towel in my hands, watching Brock load the dishwasher.
He’s been doing things like this for days now.
Small things that matter. He makes coffee before I wake up but leaves the mug empty so I can add my own cream.
He clears a drawer in the bathroom for my things but never moves my stuff without asking.
I feel useful here. Not trapped. Not just carried along. Just... cared for.
Today we’re heading to a barbecue at one of his friend’s houses. My stomach flutters with nerves as I finish drying the last plate. I’ve met some of the firefighters already, but this is different—the larger group, the people who matter to Brock outside of work.
“Ready?” he asks from the doorway. He’s wearing a dark Henley that stretches across his chest and a pair of worn jeans. His hair is still damp from the shower.
I nod and set the towel down. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He crosses to me and pulls me against him, his hand resting on my lower back. “They’re going to love you. Just be yourself.”
The drive is quiet, his hand resting on my thigh most of the way. When we pull up to the house, the yard is already packed with people. Laughter carries on the breeze. Kids weave between lawn chairs. Brock takes my hand as we walk up.
A woman with short dark hair spots us first. She waves and heads straight over. “You must be Sadie. I’m Elena. We’ve heard so much about you.”
Before I can answer, another woman joins her. “I’m Claire. Ignore the stories—Brock only tells the ones that make him look good.”
I laugh despite my nerves. “Nice to meet you both. He’s mentioned you too.”
They pull me into the group without hesitation.
Someone hands me a drink. Someone else asks what I think of the mountain town so far.
I answer honestly, telling them about the cabin fire and how Brock showed up like a force of nature.
They laugh and nod like they’ve seen him do this a hundred times before.
Elena leans in. “He carried you out over his shoulder, right? We need details.”
My cheeks heat, but I smile. “He did. I yelled the whole way. He ignored every word until he decided I was safe.”
The group bursts into laughter. Brock appears at my side with a plate of food—already fixed the way I like it. Extra vegetables. No onions. He kisses the side of my head and heads back to help with the grill without a word.
Claire watches him go. “He’s different with you. Softer. In a good way.”
I stay with the women for a while longer.
They fold me into their conversation about town events and work and kids.
I ask questions back—about the local shops, about how long they’ve all known each other.
They answer easily, warmly. No one makes me feel like the new girl who doesn’t belong.
I find myself laughing at their stories, sharing a little about my own search for a fresh start.
With every minute that passes, the knot in my chest loosens a little more.
Brock checks on me throughout the afternoon.
He brings me water when my drink runs low.
He makes sure I have a chair in the shade when the sun gets stronger.
Each time, he does it without making a fuss, without making me feel like I can’t handle myself.
I catch his eye across the yard more than once, and he always gives me that small, private smile that makes my stomach flip.
Later in the afternoon, we end up on the porch swing together. His arm rests along the back, his fingers playing with the ends of my hair. The sun is starting to dip and the air cools. I lean into his side and breathe him in.
“You fit right in,” he says quietly.
“They make it easy.” I pause, my fingers tracing patterns on his thigh. “I haven’t felt this comfortable somewhere new in a long time.”
He kisses the top of my head. We sit like that until the party starts to wind down. People say goodbye and hug me like I’m already part of the circle. Elena tells me to come over for coffee sometime. Claire makes me promise to join their next book club meeting. I say yes to both, meaning it.
On the drive home, the truck cab feels warm and safe. Brock keeps one hand on the wheel and the other holding mine. I watch the trees pass by the window, feeling pleasantly tired and full from all the food.
"So," I say, breaking the comfortable silence. "Torres told me a story about you and a raccoon."
Brock groans. "He didn't."
"Oh, he absolutely did." I grin at him. "Something about you trying to rescue what you thought was a cat stuck in a tree?"
"It was dark," he says defensively, but I can see the corner of his mouth twitching. "And it was making distressed noises."
"Until you got up there and it hissed at you."
"It did more than hiss. It tried to take my face off." He shakes his head. "Ramirez will never let me live that down."
I laugh, squeezing his hand. "I think it's sweet. You were trying to help."
"I was an idiot with a ladder."
"A very heroic idiot."
When we get inside, I kick off my shoes and flop onto the couch. Brock follows, settling beside me and pulling my feet into his lap. His hands start massaging my arches and I groan.
"Oh my god, that feels amazing."
"You were on your feet all afternoon." His thumbs work into the ball of my foot and I practically melt into the cushions.
"Worth it though." I watch him through half-closed eyes. "Elena's hilarious. And Claire has excellent taste in wine."
"They liked you." He moves to my other foot. "I could tell."
"How could you tell?"
"Because they kept pulling you into conversations. Making plans with you. That's how they are when they actually like someone." He glances up at me. "When they're just being polite, they smile and nod but don't commit to anything."
"So I passed the test?"
"With flying colors." His hand slides up my calf, his touch shifting from therapeutic to something else entirely. "Though I have to say, watching you laugh with my friends all afternoon was doing things to me."
Heat pools low in my belly. "What kind of things?"
"The kind where I kept thinking about getting you alone." His fingers trace patterns on my knee. "The kind where I had to remind myself we were in public."
I sit up and swing my leg over his lap, straddling him. His hands immediately go to my waist. "Well, we're not in public anymore."
"No, we're not." His voice drops lower. "And you've been driving me crazy all day in this dress."
"This old thing?" I tease, even as I lean in closer. "I just threw it on."
"Liar." His hands slide up my thighs, pushing the fabric higher. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
"Maybe." I kiss the corner of his mouth. "Did it work?"
"You're sitting in my lap, aren't you?"
I laugh against his lips. "Fair point."
He kisses me then—slow and deep, his hands roaming over my back. I thread my fingers through his hair and press closer. When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"You know what else Torres told me?" I murmur against his neck.
"What's that?"
"That you've been different lately. Happier." I pull back to look at him. "He said you smile more."
Brock's expression softens. His thumb brushes over my cheekbone. "That's because of you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He pulls me down for another kiss, this one tender and unhurried. "You make me happy, Sadie. Really happy."
Something warm blooms in my chest. I rest my forehead against his, feeling the truth of his words settle over me like a blanket. "You make me happy too."
We stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, trading lazy kisses and quiet touches.
Eventually he stands, lifting me with him, and carries me to his bedroom.
We make love slowly, taking our time, his hands reverent on my skin.
Afterward, he pulls me close and strokes my hair until I drift off, feeling safe and wanted and completely content.
Sadie
The next morning I wake to find Brock's side of the bed empty.
Pale light filters through the curtains.
Dawn. I pull on one of his shirts and pad barefoot through the quiet house.
I find him on the porch, sitting on the top step with a mug of coffee cradled in his hands, staring out at the lake.
The water is still and silver in the early light.
"Hey," I say softly.
He turns his head. Something flickers across his face when he sees me in his shirt. "Morning. Did I wake you?"
"No." I sit down beside him. The wood is cool under my bare legs. "Couldn't sleep?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then he hands me his mug. I take a sip—strong and black, the way he likes it. I hand it back and wait. Something is weighing on him. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches.
"You told me about Ryan last night," he says finally. His voice is low and rough. "About what he did to you. How he tried to control you."
"Yeah." I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them. "I wanted you to understand why I left. Why I'm here."
He nods slowly. Takes another sip of coffee. Sets the mug down. Picks it back up. "I need to—" He stops. Clears his throat. "There's something I need to tell you. About me. About why I..." He trails off, staring out at the water again.
I reach over and touch his arm. "You don't have to?—"
"I do." He looks at me then. Really looks at me. His eyes are raw and exposed. "I was married. Twenty years ago. I was—God, I was so young. Twenty-six and thought I had it all figured out." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Thought I knew what love was supposed to look like."
I stay quiet. Let him find the words.
"I came home early from a shift one day.
" His jaw works. "Forty-eight hours on. I was exhausted.
Just wanted to crawl into bed with my wife and sleep for twelve hours straight.
" He pauses. His knuckles go white around the mug.
"She was in our bed. With someone else. Some guy I'd never even met. From two towns over."
"Brock—" I start, but he shakes his head.