"Okay." His hands still on my hips, giving me his full attention.
"This scares me. How easy this is. How much I want it." I swallow. "Last time, I wanted it this much I ran."
"I know." No flinch. No accusation. Just steady blue eyes.
"I'm not going to run this time. But I might panic. I might get weird about my deadline, or pull away when things feel too close, or hide behind the article when I should be present." I take a breath. "I need you to call me on it. Not punish me for it. Just—say it. Out loud. 'Riley, you're doing the thing.' And I'll try to stop."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then his arms tighten around me, and he presses his mouth to my temple.
"Riley, you're doing the thing."
I pull back. "What thing? I literally just?—"
"You're making a speech about your flaws instead of kissing me." His eyes are bright with humor. "You're allowed to just be here. You don't have to earn it with a disclaimer."
The words hit something deep. The part of me that's always bracing for conditions, for catches, for the other shoe.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
I kiss him again—less careful this time, more real—and he makes a sound against my mouth that vibrates through my entire body.
Eventually, he pulls back, checks the clock, and sighs.
"Station?"
"Station." He stands, takes me with him, and sets me on my feet with a kiss pressed to my forehead. "Shower first. You're welcome to join me, but fair warning—if you do, I will definitely be late."
"Go." I push him toward the bathroom. "Be responsible. Save lives."
"Yes, ma'am." He grins over his shoulder, and the domesticity of it— the easy joke, the shared bathroom, the morning routine building itself around us—makes my throat tight with something I'm not ready to name.
He showers. I rescue my cold coffee and try to recapture the paragraph I was working on, but the words won't come. My brain is full of him. His hands. His laugh. The way he saidyou're allowed to just be here.
When he emerges—uniform on, hair damp, badge clipped to his belt—he looks like a different person. Chief Morgan. The man the town trusts with their safety. Broad-shouldered, competent, serious.
But he catches my eye across the room, and the corner of his mouth twitches, and there it is: Noah. My Noah. Underneath the uniform, still there.
"You have work to do," he says. "Use my office. Take what you need." His hands slide to mine, squeezing gently. "I'll be back this afternoon. We can figure out dinner then."
"I'll be here," I say. "Working. Being responsible. Very professional."
He grins—slow, warm, devastating. "I like you professional. I also like you in my shirt with coffee on your nose."
"I don't have coffee on my—" I touch my face, and he laughs, catching my hand and kissing the fingertips.
"See you soon."
He pulls on his boots, grabs his keys, and pauses at the door to look back at me. The look on his face isn't possessive or hungry. It's something quieter. Something like wonder—like he can't quite believe I'm sitting in his kitchen, in his shirt, choosing to stay.
Then he's gone, and the cabin settles into the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.
I return to my draft, working steadily until it's time to head to the fire station.
The morning has warmed considerably by the time I walk the few blocks to the station, sunlight glinting off the polished fire engine visible through open garage doors.
Inside, a group of firefighters in full gear stand in a loose circle while Noah outlines what appears to be a complex scenario.
He notices me immediately, his professional demeanor briefly giving way to a smile that reaches his eyes before he refocuses on his team. I hang back, observing without interrupting as he completes his instructions.
