He clears his throat, the rough sound scraping through the silence, as if he’s trying to gather the pieces of himself. “I went to get them around five,” he says quietly, his gaze flicking up to mine before darting back to the kittens. A faint color rises inhis cheeks. “It was freezing. When I checked on them, they were shivering, so…” He gestures helplessly to the tiny pile of kittens on his shirt.
The sheepish way he says it—like he needs to justify why he’s become a living heating pad for a family of cats—makes my heart clench. Of course he was worried about them being cold. Of course he’d crawl out from under his own blanket to make sure they were safe.
“That’s smart,” I manage, pretending there’s no subtext between us. The words taste fragile, paper-thin. Every glance, every pause feels loaded now, a quiet acknowledgment of what’s changed.
“Duchess doesn’t seem to mind sharing babysitting duties,” he says softly. The mother cat blinks up at him, serene. “Now I’m afraid to move and disturb them.”
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper, easing back onto my side of the bed. “This might be the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, low and warm. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell the crew. I’d never live it down—big, bad orc firefighter, taken out by four furballs who fit in a shoebox with room to spare.”
I grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The teasing fades. The fire pops softly, filling the silence neither of us is ready to break.
“They’re something special, aren’t they?” he murmurs at last.
“Remarkable,” I agree. Snowball kneads his paws against Ryder’s shirt, already testing the world. “Four healthy babies, flawless delivery, and they’re already thriving. Duchess did everything right.”
“So did you,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me look up. “The way you knew exactly what to do, how calm you stayed. It was…”
“What I’ve trained for,” I cut in, but his steady gaze says he means more.
“It was more than that.” His voice deepens. “You were incredible, Laney.”
My chest tightens. The way he says my name—quiet, reverent—feels like a touch.
“What was that song?” I ask quickly, desperate for safer ground.
“Old lullaby my mother used to sing,” he says, rubbing his chin. “I probably don’t remember all the words, but they seem to like it.”
“What’s it about?”
“Safety.” His voice drops to almost nothing. “Being protected while you sleep. Having someone watch over you so you can rest without fear.”
My throat tightens. Of course, it’s about that. Of course, this male—who spent the night being a literal security blanket for tiny kittens—would sing lullabies about safety.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
We fall quiet. Outside, the storm softens to a sigh against the windows. Inside, there’s only the slow rhythm of breathing, the steady purr of new life, and the heat pulsing gently between us.
When I glance back, he’s still watching me—steady, unhurried, like he’s memorizing the moment. The air feels fragile, stretched tight between us.
“The power might be back on soon,” I say finally, though I’m surprised by the small ache in my voice. Once the lights return, so will reality.
“Probably.” He doesn’t sound eager either.
Pip gives a sleepy twitch, one paw brushing the air near Ryder’s chin, and he shifts slightly to keep her settled. The care in that simple movement—the way he treats these fragile lives like spun glass and starlight—undoes me a little more.
Silence blooms again, but it’s a good kind—soft, alive, charged with something neither of us dares name.
“You know,” he says quietly, “this might be the most peaceful I’ve felt in years.”
It’s such a simple confession, yet it hits deep.
“I should check on everyone else,” I murmur, half hoping he’ll stop me.
“I’ll do it.” He sits up slowly, making a hammock of his shirt so he doesn’t wake the kittens. “You should stay warm.”
