2. Lucas
LUCAS
Istand on Harmony’s parents’ front porch at six o’clock sharp, empty-handed and feeling less composed than I've felt walking into burning buildings.
The empty-handed part is deliberate. Fifteen minutes ago I stood in front of the florist’s cooler for a full minute staring at sunflowers and pink roses, then walked out because flowers felt too close to a date.
This is dinner. Catching up. Two old friends sitting across from each other after too many years apart.
That’s the line I keep telling myself, and I’m not buying a damn word of it.
The truth is that seeing Harmony walk into the station yesterday knocked me sideways.
One second I was checking equipment logs, and the next she was standing in my lobby with warm cookies in her hands and the same pretty mouth that used to argue with me over bike races and tree forts.
I recognized her instantly. Ten years disappeared in one breath, and every feeling I buried when she left for college came back a hell of a lot harder to ignore.
I was in love with her when I was eighteen.
I never said it because I was a stupid kid who figured there would be time, and then she was gone.
After a while, I convinced myself it was a teenage crush and nothing more.
That lie worked fine until yesterday, when she looked up at me with those wide eyes and made me feel eighteen and grown all at once.
The front door opens, and every thought in my head goes silent.
Harmony stands there in a flowy top and jeans that hug her plentiful curves, and my hand flexes at my side. Her hair falls around her shoulders, and there’s a tiny crease between her brows, as if she’s been arguing with herself about whether tonight is strange too.
“Hi,” she says.
I make myself smile instead of staring at her mouth. “Hi.”
Her eyes dip over me, taking in the dark pants and button-down shirt I changed three times before settling on. “You clean up well.”
“That a surprise?”
“A little.”
I huff out a laugh. “Mean as ever.”
“It wasn’t mean. It was honest.”
“Mean and honest aren’t mutually exclusive, Harmony.”
Her smile comes quick, and my chest eases at the sight of it. I step back from the door, giving her room as she steps out. Her heel catches on the edge of the top step of the porch, and my hand automatically goes to her elbow.
She looks up.
I let go slowly.
“Careful,” I say.
“I had it.”
“I know.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a smile tucked at the corner of her mouth. “Do you?”
“Sure. I just had it too.”
That earns me a quiet laugh, and I hold on to the sound longer than I should.
The drive to the restaurant is short because everything in town is short, but I take the quieter streets anyway.
It gives me a few more minutes with her in the cab of my truck, a few more minutes of pretending my body doesn’t know exactly where she is in the seat beside me.
She glances out the window as we pass the hardware store. “I forgot how small everything feels here.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I meant it in a good way. I think.”
“You still figuring that out?”
“Yeah.” Her fingers smooth over the strap of her purse. “Some days I feel relieved. Some days I feel completely insane.”
“Quitting a job you hated isn’t insane.”
“You make that sound like a fact.”
“Because it’s true.”
Her gaze stays on me for a beat, amused. “You always this sure about everything?”
“No.”
“What aren’t you sure about?”
I pull into a spot outside the restaurant and cut the engine, buying myself a second before I answer. “Plenty of things.”
“That was vague.”
“It was.”
She laughs, and I get out before I say something too honest. I walk around the front of the truck to open her door, then offer my hand because the curb is uneven and because touching her, even briefly, is already turning into a bad habit.
Her hand settles against mine, warm and trusting inside my grip, and I hold on longer than the curb requires before I let her go.
Inside, the restaurant is half full, busy enough for noise but not so packed that anyone will bother us.
I asked for a booth in the back when I called earlier, and the hostess leads us there while making cheerful smalltalk.
Harmony slides in first, and I take the seat across from her instead of beside her because I’m trying to behave.
Harmony picks up the menu, but her eyes lift over the top of it. “Did you choose this place because it’s the only decent restaurant in town or because you remember I used to love their milkshakes?”
“Both.”
“You remembered?”
“You say that like it’s more impressive than you remembering my favorite kind of cookie.”
She smiles. “I bet I remember more about you than you remember about me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t make that bet.”
She leans her elbows onto the table. “Try me.”
“Okay. One, you hate mushrooms.”
“Easy.”
“Two, you’ve always loved thunderstorms.”
She shrugs. “Still easy.”
“Three, you’ve got a scar on your left knee from crashing your bike behind the elementary school. Should I keep going?”
She sits back in the booth and waves a dismissive hand. “You know, I’ve suddenly lost all interest in this game.”
I grin. “No, you’ve suddenly realized you’re going to lose.”
“I prefer to think of it as making a graceful exit.” She takes a sip of water. “So, what made you become a firefighter?”
I chuckle. “Nice segue.”
“Well?”
I lean back, hooking one arm over the back of the booth. “I wanted work that mattered. Didn’t want an office. Didn’t want to spend my life making rich men richer.”
“That sounds very you.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “You were always taking care of people. Half the time, that person was me. Pulling me out of trouble.”
“I remember putting you into trouble more often than pulling you out.”
“That’s also true.”
“You followed willingly.”
“I was impressionable.”
“You were bossy.”
Her mouth falls open. “I was not.”
“Harmony, you once made me build a fort to your exact specifications, then fired me from the project when I put the entrance on the wrong side.”
“That was a serious architectural failure.”
I laugh, and she smiles back at me across the table, warm and bright and so familiar it hurts. For a second, I can see the girl she was and the woman she is at the same time, and the want that rises up in me is so blunt that I have to look away to keep from reaching across the table for her.
This is where I have to be careful.
Harmony came home looking for a fresh start, not a man who’s been carrying a piece of her around since high school.
She doesn’t need me laying ten years of buried feelings at her feet on the first night.
She needs easy. She needs safe. She needs me to prove I’m still someone she can trust, even while every instinct I have is telling me to close the distance and make some kind of claim.
So I keep my hands to myself, keep my voice even, and let the conversation do what it wants.
When we leave, the air has cooled and Front Street is glowing under the streetlights. I instinctively walk on the outside edge of the sidewalk, placing myself between her and the road.
“Did you do that on purpose?” Harmony asks.
“Do what?”
She points between us. “That. The whole walking-nearest-traffic thing.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because cars are on that side.”
Her smile tugs wider. “That’s your explanation?”
“It’s the correct one.”
“You’re different.”
I glance down at her. “From when I was eighteen?”
“Yes.” Her voice turns quieter. “And no.”
I don’t ask what she means because I’m not sure I can take the answer without stopping right there on the sidewalk and kissing her. Instead, I walk her to my truck, open the door, and help her in.
The drive back to her place is slower than it needs to be.
She tells me about her favorite hole-in-the-wall places in Chicago, and I tell her which roads flood when it rains and which neighbors still know everyone’s business.
It isn’t enough. Not even close. When I pull into her parents’ driveway, I leave the engine running too long, because turning it off means the night has to end, and I’m not ready to let go of her yet.
Harmony looks toward the front porch, then back at me. “That went fast.”
“Yeah.”
I cut the engine. She doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Finally, I get out and walk around to open her door. When she takes my hand, she doesn’t let go right away. I feel every point of contact through my skin, and the restraint I’ve been forcing all night pulls around me painfully tight.
At her parents’ front door, she turns to face me. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for not making it weird.”
I look at her mouth despite every warning going off in my head. “I’m trying.”
She works her bottom lip between her teeth. “Trying?”
“To keep this casual.”
“Is it?”
The question hangs between us, and every careful thing I told myself about going slow starts to come apart.
I should give her a measured answer. I should step back, tell her good night, and let her go inside before I do something that changes everything between us for good. Instead, I lift my hand and brush my knuckles along the side of her face.
Her eyes stay on mine, wide and beautiful and wanting enough to break whatever control I have left.
“Harmony,” I say, my voice helplessly rough.
“Yeah?”
I lean in slowly, waiting for her to stop me.
She doesn’t.
Then ten years of waiting finally ends, and my lips meet hers.