Page 21 of The Firefighter’s Forever

Am I going to be a good mother? Am I lazy for still living with my parents? Should I be looking harder for my own place before the baby comes, or is that pride talking?

And then there’s Lucas.

There’s always Lucas.

For months, I’ve told myself keeping him at arm’s length is the smart thing. It was supposed to protect us. Protect the baby. Protect whatever fragile version of friendship and co-parenting we were building after everything got complicated so fast. Trying to start a romantic relationship with the father of my baby after one impulsive night together felt risky enough. Doing it while pregnant, unemployed, and living with my parents seemed like asking for disaster.

So I chose safe.

At least, that’s what I called it. But safe has started to feel a lot like pretending.

Because the last few months haven’t felt like just friendship. Lucas goes to appointments with me. He knows which brand of crackers I can still tolerate. He installed the car seat base way earlier than necessary because he said there was no good reason to wait. He texts me after every shift, goes out of his way to have conversations with my parents, and keeps the ultrasound photos in a folder because I kept bending the corners.

He shows up for everything. And I keep acting like that doesn’t mean what it means.

The worst part is that I’m still wildly attracted to him. That should have faded. After all the practical conversations and doctor appointments and discussions about crib mattresses, surely the heat between us should have calmed into something milder.

It hasn’t. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

Now I know how he looks holding a tiny pair of socks in one large hand. I know how his jaw tightens when I carry something heavier than he thinks I should. I know the deep, focused sound of his voice when he’s trying to ask if I’m scared without making me feel fragile. I know what it feels like when he stands too close and doesn’t touch me because I’m the one who drew the line.

My frustration finally pulls me upright. I reach for my phone on the nightstand, wanting to check the time even though knowing it won’t help.

My phone is still on silent from last night, and the screen lights up with a message from Lucas. It came in four minutes ago.

The message is simple, attached to a photo of the sunrise from somewhere outside his house. The sky is washed in orange and pale gold, the tops of the trees silhouetted against the light, and the whole thing is so pretty it makes my throat tighten.

Lucas: Saw this while I was getting ready. Thought you might like it when you wake up.

A fresh wave of emotion rises in me so fast I have to set the phone facedown on the bed.

My eyes burn.

The baby kicks.

I freeze, both hands going to my stomach.

There it is again. A firm nudge beneath my ribs, then another, as if the baby has an opinion about dawn and insomnia and their mother finally running out of excuses.

Our baby.

Lucas’s baby.

Mine.

Ours.

What am I doing?

The question lands with a clarity that cuts through every sleepless, anxious thought in my head. What am I protecting by keeping Lucas at a distance? My independence? My pride? Some imaginary version of life where nothing gets messy if I refuse to admit what I want?

My life is already messy.

It’s also full of him.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a second, breathing through the sudden rush of nerves. Then I stand before I can talk myself out of it. My body feels heavy and awkward as I pull on pants and a loose sweater, but my mind is clearer than it’s been in weeks.

Downstairs, I move quietly through the dark kitchen, grab my keys from the hook by the door, and leave a quick note on the counter in case my parents wake up before I’m back.