Page 33 of Smoke Signals

The word guardian lands heavier than it should.

I shrug it off, pick up a fry. “I’m just trying not to screw her up.”

When we’re done eating, neither of us stands right away. He taps his fingers against the table, thinking.

“Walk with me,” he says. Not a question or a demand.

I check my watch out of habit, then realize I don’t actually want to leave yet. “Okay.”

We toss our trash and step back onto the sidewalk. The sun’s out, weak but trying, bouncing off windows and puddles. He keeps pace beside me, hands in his pockets, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch.

“You miss firefighting,” I say before I can stop myself.

He looks at me then, surprised enough that it feels like a small win. “Yeah,” he admits. “More than I thought I would.”

“I get that,” I say quietly.

“So,” he says, glancing at me sideways. “How’d you end up doing massage?”

“Hands made sense to me. Bodies tell the truth. You don’t have to talk around things.”

He hums. “Yeah. I get that.”

“You do?”

“Fire’s honest,” he says. “Doesn’t pretend or negotiate. You either respect it or it takes what it wants.”

That lands somewhere deep. We stop outside the studio, brick warm against my back when I lean without realizing I’ve done it. He steps closer, not crowding, just there. The city noise fades into something distant and unimportant.

“Lunch was good,” I say, because my brain is scrambling for neutral ground.

“It was,” he says. “I’m glad you said yes.”

“Me too,” I admit, softer than I meant to.

His hand lifts, hesitates, then braces against the wall near my shoulder. Not touching, just close enough that I feel the heat of him. The awareness between us sharpens, bright and unavoidable.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

I don’t.

He leans in, slow enough that I could pull away, and my body makes the decision before my brain can argue. My hand comes up, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie and when his mouth meets mine, it’s gentle and devastating all at once.

The kiss is soft, almost tentative, like we’re both checking if the other is real. His lips are warm. He tastes like mustard, soda, and something uniquely him. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise my ribs from the inside.

I kiss him back, the world narrowing to the point where we connect. My brain finally catches up and immediately panics.

I pull back, breath coming too fast, forehead resting against his chest because I need the contact even as I’m trying to regain control.

“I need to tell you something,” I say, words tumbling out before I can talk myself out of them.

“Okay.”

“I’ve never…” I swallow, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I’ve never been with a man. Not really. I mean, I’ve known I’m bi for forever, that part isn’t new, but this is. You are.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Thank you for telling me,” he says.

I look up at him, searching his face for disappointment, pressure, or anything that would justify the fear roaring through me. I don’t find it.