The buzz of six-year-olds fills the classroom, a mix of squeaky chairs, whispered secrets, and pencils clattering on desks. I smooth my skirt over my lap and try not to look at the clock for the fifth time in two minutes.
Any second now, the fire department is going to walk through that door, and I’ll be forced to face him again.
Him.
The British firefighter who smiles as if saving me was just another Tuesday. The one who smells like soap and sin. The one who has no idea I’m still replaying that smirk in my head when I have no business fantasising about a man much younger than me. A single dad too. Yes, I checked Sienna’s file yesterday after he left. It doesn’t say his age, but you only have to look at him to see he’s in his prime. Unlike me in my midlife, midriff and midnight snacking era, not to mention the bouts of perimenopausal anxiety, brain fog, and the odd chin hair.
And now he’s coming into my classroom.
The door opens, and a ripple of excitement runs through the kids. A dozen little voices squeal, “The firemen!”
He walks in first, broad shoulders filling the doorway, navy shirt stretched just right, turnout coat slung over one arm like he’s in a recruitment poster.
Behind him, Phoenix grins, wheeling in a trolley of props—a plastic fire extinguisher, a smoke alarm, and a poster with cartoon flames. “Morning, little legends,” he calls, earning a cheer from the kids.
None of it matters. My eyes lock on him.
Mr. October, or Mr. Coleman as I found out from his daughter’s file.
He catches my gaze, and the corner of his mouth lifts in that slow, panty-melting smile.
“Good morning, class,” I manage, my voice wobbling like jelly. “This is… Firefighter Coleman, here to talk about fire safety.”
He smiles at the class and says, “Call me Drake.”
“Draco,” Phoenix coughs under his breath, and the class erupts in giggles.
“Draco?” I echo before I can stop myself.
His eyes glint with amusement. “Nickname,” he says with a shrug, like it explains everything. Then he discards his jacket, revealing an inked dragon tail trailing down his arm.
The heat in my cheeks spreads to my toes.
“Cool!” one boy blurts. “Is that a dragon?”
Another boy says, “Are you a dragon? Can you breathe fire?”
The room bursts into chatter, and Drake chuckles low in his throat, the sound curling straight through me. “Only if I eat too much chilli,” he says, winking at the boy.
The class laughs. I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling, too. He’s good with them. Too good.
Sienna, sitting front and centre, beams up at her dad like the sun itself. My heart twinges with warmth.
He launches into the talk and I take a back seat, letting him have the room. “Stop, drop, and roll, crawl low under smoke, check your batteries in the alarms.” His voice is steady, confident, magnetic, and every so often, he glances at me with a smirk, like he knows exactly how flustered I am.
When he crouches to demonstrate “crawl low under smoke,” half the class crawls after him in a giggling wave. He plays along, pretending to be a dragon chasing them, and the kids shriek with delight.
I should be mortified. Instead, I’m watching him through fiery eyes, my heart thudding as if I’m the one who’s six.
When it’s over, the kids line up for high-fives, clamouring around him like he’s a superhero. And maybe he is.
“Any questions for Firefighter Drake?” I ask, trying to steer the chaos.
A hand shoots up. “My mom wanted to know if you were married?”
My stomach drops. “Oh, uh—maybe let’s keep the questions about fire safety.”
But Draco is grinning. “Not married,” he says, like it’s nothing, and my entire class erupts in ooohs.
