I blink. “What?”
“Jordan, some of the cases you take on—they’re life-changing for people. Kids who need protection, families being torn apart. How are you supposed to just clock out at five and pretend people aren’t depending on you?”
“That’s… that’s exactly what I’ve always thought. But David said—”
“David was wrong.” Forge’s voice is firm but not angry. “Your dedication to your work isn’t a character flaw. It’s who you are. The problem is that you’ve been with people who saw that dedication as competition instead of seeing it as one of the things that makes you extraordinary.”
Something inside me cracks open at his words. “But I do neglect relationships. I canceled our hiking date for work last week. I’ve done it before, and I’ll probably do it again.”
“You’ve prioritized genuine emergencies involving children’s safety over recreational activities. That’s not choosing work over relationships—that’s being a decent human being who takes her responsibilities seriously. There’s a difference.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he’s saying. “Is there?”
“What would you need from me?” he asks. “In a relationship, I mean. Not what David needed or what anyone else expected, but what would make you feel supported when those genuine emergencies happen?”
The question hangs between us, and I realize no one has ever asked me this before. “I… I don’t know.”
“Think about it. What would make the hard stuff easier?”
I take a sip of the wine, using the time to really consider his question. “I guess… I’d want you to understand that helping people isn’t just what I do; it’s who I am. And I’d want…” I pause, the words feeling vulnerable. “I’d want to find a way to be good at loving someone, too.”
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I stare at him as though he said something in a foreign language. “What does that mean?”
Forge sets down his coffee. “Maybe the solution isn’t choosing between work and love.”
“What do you mean?” I lean forward, genuinely curious.
“Maybe it’s about building something that makes you better at both.” He traces the wood grain of the table with one finger, thinking. “Like how the firehouse makes us better firefighters because we’re a family, not in spite of it.”
“But my work is different. It’s adversarial. It’s—”
“Important to you,” he finishes gently. “And that’s not a flaw, Jordan. If instead of seeing your dedication as a problem to manage, what if we figure out how to make it sustainable?”
I sit back, stunned. “You’re not asking me to work less.”
“Why would I? Your passion for justice is one of the things I lo—” He catches himself. “One of the things I admire most about you.”
The word he almost says hangs in the air between us, bright and dangerous. My pulse stutters, heat pooling low in my chest. If he felt it—if he meant it—I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it, but I can’t bring myself to look away.
“How would we do that?”
“I don’t know yet. But maybe we could brainstorm it. Together.”
The word “together” hits me differently than I expected. My chest gets tight, and I have to blink back sudden tears becausethe idea of someone wanting to build systems with me instead of asking me to choose feels revolutionary.
“You’d want to do that? Help me figure out how to balance everything?”
“Jordan.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I don’t want you to balance everything. I want to help you build systems that make the hard stuff easier.”
My fingers tighten around his. “What would that look like?”
“Maybe it starts with communication. Maybe next time you get an emergency call, instead of just leaving, you take thirty seconds to say, ‘I have to handle this, but I want to finish our conversation later.’”
“That simple?”
“That’s not simple at all. That’s you choosing to include me in your decision-making instead of just making decisions and hoping I’ll understand. And this works both ways. Occasionally I get called away on emergencies, just like our first coffee date. You immediately supported me by driving me back to the station and watching from the sidelines.”
