Page 23 of The Firefighter’s Forever

I hold onto his shirt as he pulls me closer, mindful of my stomach but fierce everywhere else, and every lonely, anxious, self-protective thing inside me breaks open beneath the force of him kissing me back.

Lucas groans against my mouth, and I feel it everywhere.

His thumb strokes along my jaw. My fingers curl into the cotton over his chest. The sunrise warms my back, his body shelters the rest of me, and for the first time in months, the future doesn’t feel like something I’m trying to survive. It feels like something I’m reaching for.

And Lucas kisses me like he’s already there.

9

EPILOGUE – LUCAS

15 MONTHS LATER

Istand beside the crib and watch my son sleep.

He fought it for twenty solid minutes. He rubbed his eyes, kicked his legs, threw his stuffed bear out twice, and gave me the same stubborn scowl Harmony gives me whenever she knows I’m right but doesn’t want to admit it. Then, finally, his little body gave up. Now he’s curled on his side with one fist tucked near his mouth, breathing softly in the glow from the night-light.

A year old.

I still don’t know how the hell that happened.

Some days I look at him and feel like my chest can’t hold it all. I’ve walked into fires, wrecks, and houses filled with smoke, but nothing has ever hit me like being someone’s dad.

Quietly, I back out of the nursery and pull the door closed behind me. The hallway is dim, the house finally settling after bath time, dinner, and the usual end-of-day chaos. It’s the kind of quiet I used to think I wanted after a shift. Now it only feels right because my family is inside it.

In the kitchen, Harmony stands at the sink rinsing dinner plates, her hair twisted up in a messy knot and one of my old T-shirts hanging loose over her shorts. She’s barefoot, tired, and so damn beautiful I have to stop in the doorway for a second just to look at her.

My wife.

Her hips are fuller now. Her breasts are softer and heavier. Pregnancy changed her body, and motherhood changed the way she carries herself, but every version of her has only made me want her more. She’s all curves and warmth and sharp little looks over her shoulder when she catches me staring.

Which she does now.

“Is he asleep?” she asks.

“Out cold.”

“Good. Then I can finish this before he somehow senses a clean kitchen and decides to revolt.”

I cross the room and slide my arms around her from behind, settling my hands low on her stomach as I press my mouth to the side of her neck. “Leave it.”

“Lucas.”

“What?”

“I’m still cleaning.”

“I can see that.”

“Then stop distracting me.”

“I’m helping.”

She snorts, but her body softens back against mine for half a second before she catches herself. “You are absolutely not helping.”

I groan against her shoulder, then let her go because she’s right and because the faster we finish, the faster I can get my hands back on her. “Fine. Move over.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You’re volunteering for dishes?”