Page 6 of The Firefighter’s Forever

This is where I have to be careful.

Harmony came home looking for a fresh start, not a man who’s been carrying a piece of her around since high school. She doesn’t need me laying ten years of buried feelings at her feet on the first night. She needs easy. She needs safe. She needs me to prove I’m still someone she can trust, even while every instinct I have is telling me to close the distance and make some kind of claim.

So I keep my hands to myself, keep my voice even, and let the conversation do what it wants.

When we leave, the air has cooled and Front Street is glowing under the streetlights. I instinctively walk on the outside edge of the sidewalk, placing myself between her and the road.

“Did you do that on purpose?” Harmony asks.

“Do what?”

She points between us. “That. The whole walking-nearest-traffic thing.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because cars are on that side.”

Her smile tugs wider. “That’s your explanation?”

“It’s the correct one.”

“You’re different.”

I glance down at her. “From when I was eighteen?”

“Yes.” Her voice turns quieter. “And no.”

I don’t ask what she means because I’m not sure I can take the answer without stopping right there on the sidewalk and kissing her. Instead, I walk her to my truck, open the door, and help her in.

The drive back to her place is slower than it needs to be. She tells me about her favorite hole-in-the-wall places in Chicago, and I tell her which roads flood when it rains and which neighbors still know everyone’s business. It isn’t enough. Not even close. When I pull into her parents’ driveway, I leave the engine running too long, because turning it off means the night has to end, and I’m not ready to let go of her yet.

Harmony looks toward the front porch, then back at me. “That went fast.”

“Yeah.”

I cut the engine. She doesn’t move. Neither do I.

Finally, I get out and walk around to open her door. When she takes my hand, she doesn’t let go right away. I feel every point of contact through my skin, and the restraint I’ve been forcing all night pulls around me painfully tight.

At her parents’ front door, she turns to face me. “Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And for not making it weird.”

I look at her mouth despite every warning going off in my head. “I’m trying.”

She works her bottom lip between her teeth. “Trying?”

“To keep this casual.”

“Is it?”

The question hangs between us, and every careful thing I told myself about going slow starts to come apart.

I should give her a measured answer. I should step back, tell her good night, and let her go inside before I do something that changes everything between us for good. Instead, I lift my hand and brush my knuckles along the side of her face.