Summary: On a rainy Nashville night, Lieutenant Ryan Hart, still technically married but freshly served divorce papers, shows up soaked and emotionally wrecked at your door, admitting he’s tired of fighting his feelings for you. Their long-restrained attraction ignites into a passionate, intense encounter on the couch filled with desperate kisses, edging, light choking, and raw emotional release as they both surrender to the moment. Afterward, Ryan holds you tenderly, confessing he doesn’t regret it and wants to try doing things right with you, one night at a time, finally choosing something for himself.
The rain hammered Nashville like it had a personal grudge. You were halfway through a glass of cheap red when the knock came,sharp, impatient, the kind that said the person on the other side was barely holding it together.
You opened the door and there he was: Lieutenant Ryan Hart, soaked through his dark Henley and worn jeans. His short hair was plastered down, water dripping from his jaw. He smelled like rain, cedar cologne, and the faint ghost of station smoke that never quite washed out.
“Ryan,” you said softly. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer right away. Those sharp blue eyes, usually steady with that Hart-code certainty, looked wrecked. “Papers came today. Samantha… she’s done waiting.”
Your stomach twisted. You’d known this was coming. The late-night texts, the way he’d shown up after bad shifts more and more often, the careful distance he kept even when the air between you crackled. You were the safe harbor outside the firehouse and the Hart family circus. Not quite a secret, but not something he could claim in daylight either.
“Come in,” you murmured, stepping aside.
He hesitated on the threshold, water pooling at his boots. “I shouldn’t be here. Not like this. I still got a ring on my finger, technically.”
“Then why’d you drive over?”
Ryan’s jaw flexed. “Because I’m tired of pretending I’m not drowning. And every time I close my eyes lately, it’s you I see.”
The confession hung heavy between you. You reached out, fingers brushing his wet sleeve. That was all it took.
He moved fast for a man carrying that much guilt, crowding you back against the wall in your narrow hallway, one broad hand cupping the back of your neck as his mouth crashed into yours. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was months of restraint snapping, teeth and tongue and the low groan that vibrated from his chest. Rainwater soaked into your shirt where his body pressed flush.
“Tell me to leave,” he rasped against your lips, forehead resting on yours. His voice had gone thick with that Tennessee drawl that got deeper when he was emotional. “Tell me right now and I’ll walk out. Swear on my code.”
You slid your hands up his soaked chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. “I’m not telling you to leave, Ryan.”
“Fuck,” he breathed. Then he was kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, walking you backward toward the living room until the back of your knees hit the couch.
Clothes came off in a messy trail. His Henley hit the floor with a wet slap. You tugged at his belt while he peeled your shirt over your head, calloused palms skating over your ribs like he was memorizing terrain. When you finally got his jeans open and shoved them down his hips, he kicked them away along with his boots.
Ryan naked was a sight that short-circuited your brain every time. Broad shoulders and chest carved from years of hauling hose and ranch work, strong thighs, the faint white scars from calls gone sideways. His cock was already hard, thick and flushed, curving slightly up. A bead of pre-come glistened at the tip.
He didn’t let you look long. He pushed you down onto the couch, following you down so his weight pinned you deliciously. One knee nudged your thighs apart.
“Been thinking about this too damn much,” he muttered, lips dragging down your throat. “Every quiet moment at the station, every time I drove past your exit… knew it was wrong. Still couldn’t stop.”
His mouth found your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. You threaded fingers through his damp hair, tugging. He groaned in approval.
Ryan took his time despite the urgency thrumming through him. He kissed down your stomach, nipping at your hip bone, then settled between your spread thighs like he belonged there. The first slow lick up your center had your hips jerking.
“Easy, darlin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “I got you. Gonna make you feel good tonight. Least I can do after dragging you into my mess.”
He ate you out like a man starving, long, deliberate strokes of his tongue, then focusing on your clit with tight circles that had you panting. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right. The stretch was perfect, the calluses adding that extra edge of friction.
Every time you got close, thighs trembling, breath hitching, he pulled back. Edged you with merciless patience.
“Ryan…please…”
“Not yet,” he said against your slick folds, voice vibrating through you. “Want you shaking for me. Want you so desperate you forget every reason this is complicated.”
He brought you to the edge three times, mouth and fingers working in tandem, only to ease off each time with soft kisses to your inner thighs and murmured praise. “Good girl… so wet for me. That’s it, breathe. You’re doing so good holding it for me.”
By the fourth build-up you were whimpering, hips rocking helplessly against his face, tears of frustration pricking your eyes.
“Please, Ryan. I need, fuck, I need to come.”
He finally took mercy, sucking your clit hard while his fingers pumped deep and fast. The orgasm slammed into you like a wave, thighs clamping around his head as you cried out. He didn’t stop until you were twitching and oversensitive, only then did he crawl back up your body, lips shiny with your release.
His eyes were dark, pupils blown. “Beautiful,” he whispered, kissing you so you could taste yourself.
You reached between you, wrapping your hand around his cock. He was hot and heavy, twitching at your touch. Ryan hissed, hips jerking forward.
“Condom?” you managed.
He shook his head, forehead pressed to yours.
“I’m on birth control. And I trust you.”
Something raw flashed across his face, gratitude mixed with fresh guilt. He notched the head of his cock at your entrance and pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, until he bottomed out with a groan that sounded like it came from his soul.
“Goddamn, you feel like heaven,” he gritted out, staying still inside you to let you adjust. “So tight. So perfect. How the hell did I stay away this long?”
He started moving, deep, rolling thrusts that ground against your clit on every downstroke. The couch creaked beneath you. Rain continued its steady drum on the roof, masking the wet sounds of skin on skin and your mingled moans.
Ryan braced on one forearm, the other hand sliding up to rest lightly at the base of your throat. His palm was warm, fingers spanning wide. He didn’t squeeze yet, just held you there, a silent question in his eyes.
You nodded, covering his hand with yours and pressing down slightly. “Yes. Please.”
His gaze darkened with lust and careful control. As his thrusts picked up pace, he applied gentle pressure, enough to make your head feel light and floaty, enough to heighten every sensation without real fear. Your pulse hammered under his thumb.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice dropping into that lieutenant tone that brooked no argument. “Eyes on me while I fuck you.”
You obeyed, staring up into his face as pleasure coiled tight again. The light choke made everything sharper: the drag of his cock inside you, the way his hips snapped, the slap of skin.
He edged you again with his cock this time, slowing whenever you got close, grinding deep instead of giving you the friction you craved.
“Ryan, fuck, don’t stop,”
“Not yet, darlin’,” he panted, sweat mixing with the rainwater still drying on his skin. “Want to feel you fall apart when I say. Need this to last. Need to remember how good you take me when everything else is burning down.”
The desperation in his voice cracked something open in you. This wasn’t just sex for him. It was an escape. Confession. Absolution he didn’t think he deserved.
You dragged your nails down his back, hard enough to leave marks. “Then take what you need. Use me tonight, Ryan. Let it all out.”
Something in him snapped at your words. The careful control fractured.
He sat back on his heels, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. One hand returned to your throat, firmer this time, thumb pressing just right against the side, while the other gripped your hip, guiding you as you rode him. The new angle hit deeper, making you gasp.
“That’s it,” he growled, Southern drawl thick and filthy. “Ride my cock like you own it. Fuck, look at you… taking every inch so pretty. You’re gonna ruin me for anyone else.”
You moved faster, grinding down on him, chasing the high he kept denying you both. His hand on your throat made the pleasure spiral higher, head spinning in the best way. When your rhythm faltered from exhaustion and overwhelming sensation, Ryan took over, thrusting up hard, meeting you halfway with powerful snaps of his hips.
He edged you one final time, holding you down fully seated on his cock while he pulsed inside you, refusing to let either of you tip over.
“Please..” you sobbed, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Ryan, I can’t..need to come so bad.”
“I know. I know.” His voice was wrecked. “Let go for me now.”
He squeezed just a fraction tighter, perfect pressure and thrust up hard at the same time. The orgasm hit you like a freight train, vision whiting out as your walls clenched rhythmically around him. You cried out his name, body shaking violently in his lap.
Ryan followed right after with a broken groan, burying his face in your neck as he spilled deep inside you. His hips stuttered through the aftershocks, hand loosening on your throat immediately to stroke soothingly over the skin he’d marked.
For long minutes, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the rain.
He held you close, still buried inside you, arms wrapped tight like he was afraid you’d vanish. You carded gentle fingers through his hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple.
Eventually he pulled back enough to look at you. Guilt was already creeping back into his eyes, but so was something softer. Tender.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “But God help me, I don’t regret a single second.” His thumb brushed over the faint redness on your throat. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you assured him, leaning in to kiss him slow and sweet. You traced the line of his jaw. “What happens now?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. The honesty cost him. “I don’t want to make you a secret or a rebound crutch. You deserve better than that. If you’ll have me, messy as I am, I want to do this right. Slow.”
You smiled against his mouth. “One night at a time, Lieutenant. Starting with you staying until morning.”
Ryan huffed a quiet laugh, the first real one you’d heard from him in weeks. “Yes, ma’am.”
He finally slipped out of you, both of you hissing at the loss. Then he scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you down the hall to your bedroom. The rain had eased to a gentle patter.
In bed, he pulled you against his chest, one strong arm banded around your waist. His fingers idly traced patterns on your hip while the other hand kept returning to your throat, stroking the skin with reverent care.
You laughed softly, already drifting. “Bold of you
You fell asleep to the steady beat of his heart and the distant wail of a siren somewhere across Nashville, another call for Station 113, another night he wasn’t answering.
For once, Ryan Hart had chosen something for himself.
Summary: During a high-stakes work presentation, you suffer a sudden dizzy spell and drop to the conference room floor in front of clients and directors, but you brushed it off, powers through the meeting, and don't tell your firefighter boyfriend Ryan. When he finds out anyway, he immediately picks you up, takes you home, feeds you and lovingly scolds you for hiding it, reminding you are no longer has to handle everything alone.
The fluorescent lights in the conference room hummed like a swarm of indifferent bees overhead. You stood at the head of the long mahogany table, laser pointer in hand, clicking through the final slides of the most important presentation of your career. The regional directors from three states had flown in for this. Contracts worth millions hung in the balance. Your boss, Elena, sat at the far end, nodding approvingly as you outlined the projected Q3 deliverables for the new distribution partnership.
Your voice stayed steady, professional, laced with that practiced Nashville warmth that always sealed deals. “And as you can see from the data modeling, shifting to the hybrid logistics model will reduce overhead by eighteen percent while maintaining our commitment to same-day service in the metro area.”
A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. You allowed yourself a small, satisfied smile. This was it. Months of late nights, endless Excel sheets, and caffeine-fueled revisions had led here. You could already taste the promotion.
Then it hit.
It wasn’t dramatic, no clutching your chest or stumbling backward like in a movie. Just a sudden, sickening wave of dizziness that made the edges of your vision blur and the floor feel like it was tilting beneath your sensible black heels. Your stomach flipped. A cold sweat prickled across your forehead and the back of your neck. The laser pointer suddenly felt impossibly heavy in your fingers.
*Oh God. Not now.*
You knew this feeling. It had happened once before, years ago during college finals after pulling three all-nighters. Vasovagal something-or-other, the doctor had said. Low blood sugar, dehydration, stress. Usually manageable. But right now, in the middle of the biggest pitch of your life, it felt like your body was about to betray you spectacularly.
You gripped the edge of the table, forcing your knees to lock. “If you’ll turn to page seven in the packet,” you continued, voice only slightly thinner, “you’ll see the competitive analysis against…”
“Everything okay?” Mark from Operations asked, frowning. He was two seats down, always the observant one.
You nodded quickly. Too quickly. The room spun again. “Fine. Just... need to sit for a second. Continue for me, Elena?”
Your boss gave you a concerned look but picked up seamlessly as you lowered yourself into the nearest chair. The relief of being off your feet was immediate, but the dizziness didn’t fade. You needed the floor. Horizontal. Now. The carpeted conference room floor suddenly looked like the safest place in the world.
You slid out of the chair as gracefully as possible, knees hitting the carpet first, then your palms. A couple of gasps went around the table.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Sarah from Marketing was already halfway out of her seat.
You waved her off, pressing your forehead to the cool carpet for a blessed second. “I’m fine. Really. Just a little lightheaded. Low blood sugar, probably. Skipped breakfast.” The lie came easily. You didn’t need them hovering or calling an ambulance. Not when the directors were staring.
“You don’t look so good,” Mark said, crouching beside you. “Your face is white as a sheet.”
“Sit tight,” Elena added, her voice tight with worry. “We can pause this. Water?”
You accepted the bottle someone handed you and took small sips, breathing slowly through your nose. The dizziness began to ebb after a minute or two on the floor. Color slowly returned to your cheeks. “See? Already better. Let’s just finish the presentation. I’ve got this.”
They fussed for another minute, but you insisted, and eventually the meeting resumed with you back in your chair, contributing where you could. The directors were polite, but you caught the sidelong glances. The deal closed anyway, shaky but successful. Elena clapped you on the shoulder afterward. “Go home early. That’s an order.”
You smiled gratefully. “I’m really okay. Just need some lunch.”
What you didn’t do was text Ryan.
Ryan Hart, Lieutenant Ryan Hart of Station 113, with his easy Southern drawl, broad shoulders, and that modern-cowboy charm that still made your knees weak after eight months together. He was on shift today, probably running drills or checking equipment or doing whatever heroic firefighter things kept Nashville safe. You weren’t about to pull him away from that over a silly dizzy spell. He was worried enough as it was.
By the time you made it back to your desk in the open-plan office, the worst had passed. You nibbled on a protein bar from your drawer and chugged another water. Coworkers stopped by Sarah with ginger ale, Mark offering to cover your afternoon calls. You brushed them all off with laughs and “I’m fine, promise.”
You should have known better.
Ryan found out forty minutes later.
The business doors were open to the warm Nashville afternoon when Ryan’s walked in. His shift had ended early thanks to a quiet day, and he’d been looking forward to surprising you at your work with takeout.
Instead, he ran into Sarah in the parking lot.
“Ryan! Hey, wait, have you talked to her today?” Sarah asked, concern knitting her brows.
He slowed, instincts immediately sharpening. “Her? You mean my girl? No, why?”
Sarah hesitated, then spilled. “She almost passed out in the big presentation this morning. Just dropped to the floor in the conference room. Said she was fine, but she looked terrible. White as a ghost. We tried to get her to go home, but she powered through.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. “She what?”
“Yeah. Elena sent her home early, but I saw her at her desk twenty minutes ago. She didn’t want us calling anyone. Especially not you, I guess.”
The worry hit first, sharp and protective. Then the flash of frustration. She hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. Nothing.
“Thanks, Sarah,” he said, voice clipped but polite. He was already pulling out his phone and heading back to his truck.
---
You were halfway through answering emails when the familiar heavy footsteps approached your cubicle. You looked up just as Ryan appeared, all six-foot-something of him in his Station 113 polo and work pants, expression a storm cloud wrapped in Southern politeness.
“Hey, cowboy,” you said lightly, hoping the casual tone would deflect. “Shift end early?”
He didn’t smile. Those blue eyes, usually warm and teasing, were locked on you with laser focus. “Conference room and you hitting the floor. Almost passed out. And you didn’t think to mention it?”
You winced. “Who told you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Point is, you didn’t.” He crouched beside your chair so he was eye-level, one large hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed your skin. “You okay now?”
“I’m fine,” you insisted, covering his hand with yours. “Really. Just a dizzy spell. Low blood sugar, stress, whatever. The presentation went great.”
His jaw flexed. “You hit the floor in front of clients and directors and didn’t call me.”
“I didn’t want to worry you while you were on shift.”
“Baby.” The word was soft but edged with that lieutenant tone he used when he wasn’t taking excuses. “That’s exactly when you call me. That’s the deal. We don’t hide the important stuff.”
You sighed, leaning into his touch despite yourself. He smelled like soap and faint smoke and safety. “I powered through. Closed the deal. See? All good.”
Ryan stood, offering his hand. “Up. We’re leaving.”
“Ryan, I have..”
“Elena already cleared it. I checked.” He gave you that look, the one that said arguing was pointless. You took his hand and let him pull you up. The world stayed steady this time.
He kept a protective arm around your waist as you gathered your things, nodding politely to your coworkers who were pretending not to watch. In the elevator down to the parking garage, he pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“You scared the hell out of me when Sarah told me,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry.”
“You will be,” he said mildly, but there was no real heat in it. Just worry.
---
At your apartment, Ryan moved like he owned the place, which, lately, he practically did. He settled you on the couch with your feet up, then disappeared into the kitchen. You heard cabinets opening, the fridge humming.
“Ryan, I can make something…”
“Sit.”
He returned ten minutes later with a tray: a grilled cheese sandwich, extra gooey, just how you liked it, a bowl of tomato soup, a banana, and a bright blue sports drink. He even added a little side of pretzels.
“Eat,” he ordered, sitting on the coffee table across from you. “All of it.”
You picked up the sandwich, taking a bite. It was perfect. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Yeah, I did.” He watched you eat for a moment, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “What happened exactly?”
You explained, the sudden dizziness, the need to get low, brushing off the coworkers. He listened without interrupting, but his frown deepened with every detail.
When you finished, he shook his head. “You’re running yourself ragged. This promotion chase is gonna kill you if you don’t slow down.”
“I’m fine,” you said around a mouthful of grilled cheese. “It was one bad moment.”
“‘Fine’ is what you said when you had that migraine last month and still went to work. ‘Fine’ is what you said when you twisted your ankle on our hike and hiked the last two miles anyway.” His voice softened, but the scolding was there. “I love how strong you are. I do. But you don’t have to be strong alone anymore. That’s what I’m here for. Let me take some of it.”
You set the sandwich down, throat tight. “I didn’t want to pull you away from the station. What if there was a call?”
“Then they’d handle it. I’ve got a whole crew. You’ve got me.” He reached over and squeezed your knee. “Next time something like this happens, dizzy, chest pain, whatever, you call me. Or text. Or send a damn emoji. But you tell me. Understood?”
You nodded, the fight draining out of you. “Understood.”
“Good.” He leaned in and kissed you properly this time, slow, relieved, tasting faintly of the mint gum he chewed after shifts. When he pulled back, some of the storm had cleared from his eyes. “Now finish eating. Then you’re taking a nap. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor,” you teased.
“Close enough. I’ve got advanced first aid certification and a stubborn girlfriend who needs looking after.” He handed you the sports drink. “Electrolytes. Drink.”
You obeyed, sipping while he cleaned up the kitchen. By the time you finished the food, the exhaustion from the day, and the adrenaline crash, hit hard. Ryan helped you to the bedroom, tucking you in with the same careful efficiency he probably used on patients at scenes.
“Stay?” you asked sleepily as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” He kicked off his boots and stretched out beside you, pulling you against his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist, warm and solid. “But if you pull that ‘I’m fine’ nonsense again without telling me, we’re gonna have words, darlin’.”
You smiled into his shirt. “Noted, Lieutenant.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through you. “Get some rest. I’ve got you.”
As sleep tugged you under, safe in Ryan Hart’s arms, you realized something. The presentation had been important. The deal had been crucial.
But this, being cared for, even when you fought it, was everything.
---
The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Ryan humming an old country song in the kitchen. Your body felt reset. No dizziness. Just a faint embarrassment about yesterday.
Ryan appeared in the doorway with a mug and a plate of eggs and toast. “Morning, trouble. How’re we feeling?”
“Better. Really better.” You sat up, accepting the coffee. “Thank you. For yesterday. For the scolding. For the grilled cheese.”
He grinned, that crooked cowboy smile that made your heart flip. “Anytime. But next time, you skip straight to telling me.”
“Deal.”
He leaned down and kissed your forehead. “Good. Because I’ve got plans for you this weekend that involve zero conference rooms and a whole lot of taking it easy.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Plans?”
“Picnic by the river. My truck. Blankets. No work emails. And if you so much as look dizzy, I’m carrying you back to the truck myself.”
You laughed. “Bossy.”
“Protective,” he corrected, sitting beside you. “There’s a difference.”
There was. And as you ate breakfast together, trading quiet conversation about his shift and your now-successful deal, you felt the truth of it settle warm in your chest.
You didn’t have to do it all alone anymore. Not when you had Ryan Hart watching your six, whether you wanted him to or not.
Summary: New to the neighborhood after a tough co-parenting split, you’re focused on giving Alex stability. Ryan, still quietly grieving the future he lost when his marriage to Sam ended over differing dreams about kids, becomes the steady “cool neighbor” your son gravitates toward. What starts as backyard football help turns into late-night texts, shared dinners, and two people slowly realizing they might be ready to build the family they both crave.
Words: 6.8k
**Porch Light**
The moving truck had barely pulled away when the late August heat started pressing down on everything. Boxes were stacked in uneven towers across the living room floor, and you were already regretting every decorative pillow you’d packed. Alex, eight years old and full of restless energy after the long drive, had lasted exactly twenty minutes inside before he bolted out the front door with his worn football tucked under his arm.
You followed a minute later, wiping sweat from your forehead, just in time to see him standing at the edge of the driveway of the house directly next door. The yard was neat but lived-in, freshly mowed grass, a couple of folding chairs on the wide front porch, and a big oak tree that cast nice shade across both properties. A tall man in a faded gray t-shirt was casually tossing the football to himself, the ball spiraling cleanly each time it left his hand.
Alex didn’t wait for permission. He stepped right into Ryan’s driveway, football clutched tight. “Mister… my throws always go sideways. Can you show me how to do it like that?”
Ryan caught the ball one-handed and crouched slightly so he was closer to Alex’s eye level. His voice carried easily across the quiet street. “Sure thing, buddy. Here, put your fingers across the laces like this. Not too tight.” He demonstrated once, slow and patient, then handed the ball back. “Give it a try.”
You walked over, arms crossed loosely, trying to ignore the exhaustion settling into your bones. “Alex, honey, don’t bother the neighbors on day one.”
Ryan glanced up at you with an easy half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but felt genuine anyway. “No bother at all. Kid’s got good timing, I was just wasting time out here.” He nodded toward you. “(Name), right? Saw the truck earlier. I’m Ryan. House is right next door, obviously.”
“Yeah,” you said, offering a tired smile. “We’re still buried in boxes. Sorry if he’s already invading your yard.”
Alex threw the ball. It wobbled but actually spiraled this time, landing neatly in Ryan’s hands. The boy’s whole face lit up. “Did you see that? It didn’t go crazy!”
“Nice one,” Ryan said, tossing it back gently. “Keep your elbow in a little more next time and it’ll fly straighter. Want to try again?”
You watched them for a few minutes, Ryan giving quiet corrections, Alex hanging on every word like it was the most important lesson in the world. It was such a small thing, but after months of Alex’s dad promising to “throw the ball around next weekend” only for those weekends to disappear into work calls or last-minute plans, the sight hit harder than you expected.
Eventually you cleared your throat. “We should let you get back to your evening. Thanks for the help, Ryan.”
“No thanks needed,” he replied, straightening up. The ball rested easy in his large hands. “If you need anything while you’re settling in, tools, a ladder, someone to haul boxes, just knock. Fence between us is low enough I can hop it if something’s urgent.” His eyes flicked to Alex again, something soft and almost wistful passing over his face before he masked it. “And if the little man wants to practice more, yard’s open.”
Alex grinned up at him. “Really? Cool!”
You gently steered your son back toward your own porch. “Say thank you, Alex.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ryan!”
Ryan gave a small wave, that same half-smile lingering. “Anytime, buddy.”
Back inside, the house still smelled like cardboard and new paint. You made quick sandwiches for dinner while Alex chattered nonstop about the spiral throw and how Mr. Ryan didn’t make him feel stupid for messing up. By the time you got him bathed and into bed, Alex was half-asleep but still mumbling, “He showed me twice… and it worked both times.”
You sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “I’m glad you had fun. But we have to give neighbors space, okay? We’re the new people here.”
Alex nodded sleepily. “He seems nice though. Like… actually nice.”
Later, after the dishes were done and the house had gone quiet, you stepped out onto your front porch with a cold glass of sweet tea. The night air was still warm, cicadas humming in the trees. Your porch light cast a soft glow over the steps.
Next door, Ryan’s porch light was on too. He was sitting in one of the folding chairs, long legs stretched out, a bottle of something in his hand. He didn’t wave or call over, but he lifted the bottle slightly in a quiet acknowledgment when he noticed you.
You lifted your glass in return.
For the first time since the moving truck arrived, the tight knot in your chest loosened just a fraction. The house felt less like a fresh start you had to survive alone and more like… a place where someone steady lived right next door. Someone who had taken five minutes out of his evening to help a little boy throw a football properly.
You didn’t know Ryan’s story yet. But as you sat there under the porch lights, listening to the quiet suburban night, you had the strange feeling that the low fence between your yards might end up mattering more than you thought.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered why a man who seemed so naturally good with kids was living alone in that neat house with the big oak tree.
The first two weeks in the new house blurred together in a haze of unpacking, school supply shopping, and figuring out the quickest route to Alex’s elementary school. The neighborhood was quiet in the way only Southern suburbs could be, kids riding bikes in the cul-de-sac, the occasional wave from someone walking their dog, the low hum of lawnmowers on Saturday mornings.
Your house and Ryan’s shared a waist-high wooden fence that ran along the side yards, easy enough to lean over or step across if needed. It made the properties feel connected without being intrusive, and you’d already caught yourself glancing toward his driveway more than once when you were outside.
It was a Thursday evening, still sticky with late summer heat, when Alex’s bike became the latest crisis. The chain had been slipping for days, and after his dad had promised, again, to fix it “this weekend,” the weekend had come and gone with nothing but a short, distracted phone call. Alex had tried to fix it himself with a screwdriver from your toolbox and only managed to make it worse. Now the chain was jammed, and he was sitting on the front steps looking equal parts frustrated and defeated.
You crouched beside the bike, wiping grease from your hands. “We can take it to the shop tomorrow after school, bud.”
Alex kicked at a pebble. “But I wanted to ride with the other kids tomorrow. Mr. Ryan fixed stuff before. Maybe he knows how.”
Before you could gently talk him out of bothering the neighbor again, Alex was already wheeling the broken bike across the grass toward the fence line. You sighed and followed, wiping your hands on an old rag.
Ryan was in his side yard, hosing down his truck after what looked like a long day. He shut off the water when he saw Alex struggling with the bike. “Hey, little man. What happened here?”
“The chain keeps coming off,” Alex said, voice small. “Dad said he’d fix it but… he didn’t.”
Ryan didn’t miss a beat. He set the hose down and knelt beside the bike without being asked twice. “Let’s take a look. These old chains can be picky.” His voice stayed calm and patient, the same low drawl you remembered from the football lesson. “Grab that wrench from my toolbox over there, the red one.”
Alex’s eyes widened with importance as he hurried to fetch it. Ryan talked him through every step: how to loosen the tension, how to guide the chain back onto the gears, how to test it without pinching fingers. He let Alex do most of the work, only stepping in with quiet corrections when the boy got stuck. “There you go. Tighten it just enough, good job.”
You stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the easy way Ryan interacted with your son. No impatience, no rushing. Just steady hands and simple praise that made Alex sit up straighter every time.
When the chain finally rolled smoothly under Alex’s test pedal, the boy let out a triumphant laugh and threw his arms around Ryan in a quick, impulsive hug. “It works! Thank you!”
Ryan chuckled softly, ruffling Alex’s hair before the boy pulled back, suddenly shy. “Proud of you for sticking with it. Takes patience.”
You stepped closer, offering a grateful smile. “Seriously, thank you. I was about to give up and pay someone.”
Ryan stood, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes met yours for a moment,warm, steady, with something quieter underneath. “Glad I could help. No shop trip needed now.”
Alex rode off in triumphant circles on the now-fixed bike for a few minutes before you gently herded him inside for a bath and bedtime. He was still buzzing with excitement, chattering about “Mr. Ryan’s tools” and how fast the bike felt now, but the long day finally caught up with him. By the time you tucked him in with a quick story and a kiss on the forehead, Alex was sound asleep, breathing slow and even, one arm dangling off the side of the bed.
You’d just finished rinsing the last dish when your phone lit up with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown Hey, it’s Ryan next door. Alex left his water bottle in my side yard after the bike fix. I can bring it over if that’s easier.
You saved his contact and replied.
You:Thanks so much. He’s already out cold, but I’m still up if you want to drop it by.
A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at your front door. Ryan stood on the porch holding the bright blue water bottle, looking freshly rinsed off and wearing a clean navy t-shirt that fit just right across his shoulders. The porch light caught the faint dampness in his hair and the easy half-smile on his face.
“Here you go,” he said, voice low so he wouldn’t wake Alex. “Kid’s got good aim, left it right by the fence again.”
You took the bottle, your fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary. The touch sent a small, unexpected spark up your arm. “I really appreciate everything today. Alex hasn’t stopped smiling since you fixed that chain.” You hesitated, then added with a small smile, “Would you like to come in for a minute? I’ve got cold lemonade and some slightly imperfect chocolate chip cookies we baked yesterday. It’s the least I can do after you saved us from a bike shop bill.”
Ryan paused, glancing past you into the quiet house. Something soft flickered in his eyes,surprise, maybe interest. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble… yeah, I’d like that.”
You stepped aside, letting him in. The screen door creaked softly behind him as you led the way to the kitchen. With Alex asleep down the hall, the house felt quieter, more intimate. You poured two glasses of lemonade and set the plate of cookies on the counter while Ryan leaned against it, arms loosely crossed.
“These are dangerous,” he said after taking a bite, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing way. “You trying to bribe the neighbor into fixing more things around here?”
You laughed softly, leaning on the opposite side of the counter. “Only if it works. Though I have to admit, watching you with Alex today… you’ve got a real way with kids. Most people don’t have that kind of patience.”
Ryan’s gaze held yours a beat longer, his voice dropping a little. “Comes natural, I guess. Always liked being around them.” He took another slow sip of lemonade, eyes tracing your face with quiet appreciation. “And you’ve got your hands full doing it mostly on your own. Moving, new school, all of it. You make it look easier than it probably is.”
Heat crept up your neck at the gentle compliment. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling. “Flattery and fixed bikes? Careful, Ryan, you’re raising the bar for next-door neighbors pretty high.”
He chuckled, low and warm, the sound filling the quiet kitchen. “Just calling it like I see it, (Name).” His eyes softened as he added, more seriously but still with that light flirtatious edge, “Truth is, it was nice seeing him light up like that. Nice seeing you smile while he did, too.”
The air between you felt a little warmer, the space across the counter suddenly smaller. You held his gaze, letting the moment linger without rushing it. “Well… the porch light’s always on if you ever want to come over again. Cookies or no cookies.”
Ryan set his empty glass down, that half-smile deepening just a touch. “I might take you up on that.” He straightened, but didn’t move toward the door right away. “Goodnight, (Name). Tell Alex his bike looked fast when he was riding it.”
You walked him to the front door, the faint scent of his soap lingering as he stepped onto the porch. “Goodnight, Ryan.”
He gave you one last look over his shoulder, steady, warm, with the barest hint of something more, before crossing the short distance to his own house.
The neighborhood block party arrived the following Saturday like a warm Southern tradition you hadn’t known you needed. String lights were already strung between trees and porches along the street, grills were firing up by mid-afternoon, and kids darted between yards with popsicles dripping down their arms. The air smelled like charcoal, fresh-cut grass, and whatever someone was baking for the dessert table.
You’d almost talked yourself out of going, Alex had been up late the night before from pure excitement, but he begged until you gave in. He wore his favorite sneakers and kept asking if Mr. Ryan would be there.
Ryan was there, of course.
He was manning one of the community grills near the end of the cul-de-sac, flipping burgers with the same easy competence he’d shown fixing the bike chain. A faded apron was tied around his waist, and his t-shirt clung just slightly from the heat. When he spotted you and Alex walking over, his face softened into that familiar half-smile.
“Hey, little man,” Ryan called, waving the spatula. “Bike still running smooth?”
Alex beamed and immediately launched into a detailed report of every lap he’d done around the block that week. Ryan listened like it was the most important conversation of the day, nodding seriously and asking follow-up questions about speed and turning corners. You stood a few feet away, holding a bowl of potato salad you’d thrown together last-minute, watching the easy rhythm between them.
Ryan’s eyes eventually found yours over Alex’s head. “(Name). Glad you both made it.” He nodded toward the bowl in your hands. “That looks dangerous. You trying to ruin everyone else’s contributions?”
You laughed, the sound lighter than you’d felt in weeks. “Only if the cookies from the other night didn’t already set the bar too high.”
His grin widened, a playful glint in his eyes. “Those cookies were unfair. I’ve been thinking about them since Thursday.” The words carried a subtle warmth, low enough that Alex didn’t catch the flirtatious undertone, but you definitely did. “Let me finish this round and I’ll make you both a plate. Extra pickles for the champ here.”
True to his word, Ryan delivered. He handed Alex a plate stacked exactly how the boy liked it, a burger with extra pickles, chips on the side, and then passed you a cold drink without asking what you wanted. His fingers brushed yours again as he did, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. “Figured you might be thirsty chasing this one around all afternoon.”
The three of you found a shady spot on a couple of folding chairs someone had set out. Alex inhaled his food and then ran off to join a chaotic game of tag with the other kids, leaving you and Ryan sitting side by side.
Conversation flowed easily at first, safe topics like how Alex was settling into school and which backyard games the neighborhood kids seemed to love most. But as the sun dipped lower and the string lights clicked on overhead, the talk turned quieter.
You mentioned Alex’s upcoming flag football sign-ups at the community park. “He’s already asking if you’d come watch a practice sometime. No pressure, of course.”
Ryan’s expression shifted, something wistful flickering across his face as he watched Alex darting between kids in the fading light. “I’d like that. Used to help with the younger leagues a while back. Always pictured myself doing more of that someday, coaching, backyard games, the whole thing.” He paused, thumb tracing the rim of his plastic cup. His voice dropped, more for you than anyone else. “My ex and I… we wanted different futures in the end. Kids were part of what didn’t line up. Didn’t expect it to still hit this hard sometimes.”
The admission hung between you, gentle and honest. You felt the weight of it, the quiet ache of a future he’d once imagined but lost. Without thinking, you reached over and gave his forearm a light, reassuring squeeze. “That sounds really hard. I’m sorry.”
Ryan looked down at your hand for a moment before meeting your eyes again. The flirtatious spark from earlier softened into something deeper, warmer. “Thanks. And hey… seeing Alex light up the way he does around here? It’s been good. Real good.” His gaze held yours a beat longer, voice lowering with that subtle Southern charm. “Makes the neighborhood feel a little brighter having you two right next door.”
Heat rose in your cheeks. You didn’t pull your hand away immediately. “Careful, Ryan. Keep saying things like that and I might start leaving more broken things in your yard just so you’ll come fix them.”
He chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating through the small space between your chairs. “Might be worth it. Especially if it comes with more of those cookies… or more evenings like this.”
Alex chose that moment to run back over, flushed and laughing, breaking the moment but not the lingering warmth. “Mom! Mr. Ryan! Can we play football? Just a little?”
Ryan ruffled the boy’s hair, his smile easy again. “Tell you what, how about I come over this weekend and we practice some routes in your backyard? No pressure on the sign-ups, but I’ll show you a few things if your mom’s okay with it.”
You nodded, meeting Ryan’s eyes over Alex’s head. “We’d like that.”
As the party wound down and families started drifting back to their houses, Ryan walked with you and Alex the short distance home. The string lights from the block party still twinkled behind you, and the fence line between your porches glowed under your respective lights.
At your door, Ryan paused. “Thanks for the company tonight, (Name).” His voice was soft, meant just for you while Alex yawned beside you. “Porch light’s on if you ever want to sit out later. No cookies required.”
You smiled, the flirtation from earlier still humming quietly between you. “Same goes for you, neighbor.”
He gave you one last look, steady, warm, full of unspoken possibility, before heading to his own house, the low fence feeling more like a bridge than ever.
Inside, Alex crashed quickly, still talking about tag and football in his sleep. You stepped onto your porch for a moment, the night air cool against your skin. Ryan’s porch light stayed on, and you caught the silhouette of him settling into his chair.
The spark was no longer just slight. It was beginning to feel like something steady, something real and it was happening right next door.
Sunday afternoon arrived warm and golden, the kind of late-summer day that made the backyard feel like the center of the world. You’d spent the morning tidying up while Alex bounced around the house asking every ten minutes if it was time yet for Mr. Ryan to come over. The invitation from the block party had stuck, and Ryan had texted that morning to confirm he’d be over after lunch.
Right at the agreed time, there was a familiar knock at the front door, two quick raps. When you opened it, Ryan stood there in a simple gray t-shirt and worn jeans, a football tucked under one arm and a small toolbox in the other hand “just in case the bike needs a quick check later.” His half-smile was easy, but his eyes held that same quiet warmth you’d noticed more and more lately.
“Ready for some routes, little man?” he called past you as Alex came skidding into the hallway.
Alex practically dragged him through the house and out the back door. The shared fence line made it feel like one big yard anyway; Ryan stepped over the low wooden slats without hesitation, making the whole thing feel natural.
For the next hour, the backyard filled with laughter and Ryan’s patient voice. He set up simple cones using empty water bottles and walked Alex through basic football routes, short slants, button hooks, even a silly “zigzag like you’re dodging raccoons” that had your son collapsing in giggles. Ryan never raised his voice, never got frustrated when throws went wide. Instead, he’d crouch down, adjust Alex’s grip gently, and praise every small improvement.
“Look at that spiral,” Ryan said after one particularly good throw, offering a high-five. “You’re getting stronger every time, buddy.”
You watched from the porch steps, a glass of iced tea forgotten in your hands. The way Ryan moved, steady, encouraging, completely present, stirred something deep in your chest. Alex’s biological dad had never shown this kind of consistent patience, and seeing your son soak it up like sunlight made your throat tight with both gratitude and a quiet ache.
When practice wound down, Alex tugged on Ryan’s shirt. “Can you stay for dinner? Mom’s making burgers on the grill. Please?”
Ryan glanced at you, raising an eyebrow in silent question. You smiled and nodded. “We’d love it if you stayed. Nothing fancy, but there’s plenty.”
“Twist my arm,” Ryan replied, that teasing glint returning to his eyes as he looked at you. “Especially if it means I get to taste more of your cooking. Those cookies from the other night are still living rent-free in my head.”
The three of you moved seamlessly into dinner prep. Ryan took over the grill with natural ease while you chopped sides and Alex “helped” by stirring lemonade and telling exaggerated stories about his best throws. Conversation flowed light and warm, favorite backyard games from childhood, funny neighborhood stories, Alex’s excitement about flag football tryouts. Every so often Ryan’s gaze would drift to you across the patio table, lingering with a softness that felt heavier than words.
As the sun dipped lower and fireflies began to blink in the grass, dinner gave way to winding down. Alex, sticky with ketchup and tired from running, asked the question you’d half-expected: “Mr. Ryan, can you tell me the raccoon story tonight? The one about the tree fort?”
Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Only if it’s okay with your mom.”
You nodded, heart doing a slow flip. “Bedtime routine it is.”
Inside, the house felt cozier with Ryan there. You got Alex changed into pajamas while Ryan waited in the hallway. Then the three of you ended up in Alex’s room, Ryan sitting on the edge of the bed, you leaning against the doorframe. Ryan’s voice dropped into that low, storytelling drawl as he continued the ongoing tale of the clumsy raccoon trying to build the perfect tree fort. He added silly voices and sound effects, making Alex giggle until his eyes grew heavy.
By the end of the chapter, Alex was fighting sleep, one small hand resting on Ryan’s arm. “You’re really good at stories,” he mumbled. “Better than… anyone.”
Ryan’s expression softened, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face as he gently tucked the blanket higher. “Glad you liked it, buddy. Sleep tight.”
You switched off the lamp, leaving only the soft nightlight glowing. Ryan followed you out into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind him. The house was still now, just the two of you in the dim light.
You leaned against the wall, voice soft. “You’re really good with him, Ryan. The practice, the stories… all of it. I don’t think you know how much that means.”
Ryan stopped a step away from you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of charcoal and summer on his shirt. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. “I meant what I said at the block party. I always pictured this kind of thing, backyard stuff, bedtime stories, being the guy who shows up.” His voice lowered, carrying that gentle flirtation mixed with honest ache. “Divorce made me think maybe that future wasn’t for me anymore. Sam and I… we wanted different things when it came to family. Seeing you two right next door, though? It’s stirring up all those old wishes again. In a good way.”
The air between you thickened. You took a small step closer, drawn by the steady pull of him. “It looks good on you, you know. The way you are with Alex. The way you are with me.” Your words came out softer than intended, a hint of flirtation threading through. “Careful, or I might start depending on having you over here more often.”
Ryan’s half-smile returned, but his eyes darkened with warmth. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek, the touch lingering. “Might not mind that at all, (Name).” His voice was low, almost a murmur. “Porch lights are convenient when the houses are this close.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The almost-touch hung between you, charged, tender, full of all the small moments that had been building since the moving truck left. Ryan’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips before he caught himself, stepping back with obvious reluctance.
“I should head out before I overstay,” he said, though his tone suggested he didn’t want to. “Thanks for dinner. And for letting me be part of his bedtime.”
You walked him to the front door, the short distance feeling longer than usual. On the porch, under the glow of your light spilling toward his, Ryan paused one last time.
“Weekend’s not over yet,” he added with a quiet smile. “If you need any more raccoon chapters… or just someone to sit on the porch with… you know where to find me.”
You watched him cross back to his house, stepping easily over the low fence. The night felt warmer, the space between your homes smaller and more inviting than ever.
Inside, Alex slept peacefully, dreaming of tree forts and perfect spirals. And you stood at your door a little longer, heart beating with the slow, steady promise of whatever was growing right next door.
The community park was alive with weekend energy. Orange jerseys flashed across the grass as Alex’s flag football team battled through a tight game. You sat on the sidelines with a blanket spread out, snacks ready, heart swelling every time Alex executed one of the routes Ryan had drilled with him in the backyard. Ryan had shown up early, folding chair planted right beside yours, cooler stocked with water and orange slices. His quiet cheers, “Atta boy, Alex! Eyes up!”, carried steady and warm, making the morning feel lighter.
Then, midway through the fourth quarter, Alex’s dad appeared on the far sideline.
He looked rushed, phone still in hand, dress shirt untucked like he’d squeezed the game in between meetings. You hadn’t expected him. His appearances had grown rarer and more unreliable. Today he waved half-heartedly when Alex glanced over during a break.
The final play exploded with excitement. Alex caught a short pass, dodged a defender with a sharp zigzag, and sprinted into the end zone as the clock hit zero. The orange team erupted. Parents cheered. Alex yanked off his helmet, face glowing with pure triumph, and took off running, not toward his dad on the opposite sideline, but straight to Ryan.
“Mr. Ryan! Did you see that? I used the zigzag just like you taught me!”
Ryan laughed, crouching to catch Alex in a firm hug. “I saw every second of it, little man. That was all you,perfect hands, perfect heart. I’m so proud of you.”
Alex clung to him, beaming like Ryan hung the sun.
Alex’s dad stalked over, jaw already tight. The celebratory noise around you started to fade as heads turned.
“What the hell is this?” he snapped, voice loud enough to draw more attention. “My kid scores the winning touchdown and runs to some random person instead of his own father?”
Ryan straightened slowly, keeping one protective hand on Alex’s shoulder. His posture stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened. You stepped forward, heart pounding.
“He ran to someone who’s actually been here,” you said, voice steady but edged with months of built-up frustration. “Ryan shows up for practices, for games, for the little things you keep promising and then forgetting.”
Alex’s dad’s face reddened. “You’ve got some nerve. I’m his father. I pay child support. I show up when I can. And now you’re parading this guy around like he’s playing daddy?”
The words landed like a slap. Parents nearby shifted uncomfortably. Alex looked between the adults, confusion creeping into his excited expression.
You felt heat flare in your chest. “Playing daddy? Ryan doesn’t have to ‘play’ anything. He fixes Alex’s bike when you cancel. He stays for bedtime stories when you’re too busy. He teaches him football and actually shows up to cheer him on. You? You make promises and disappear. Alex waits by the window every single time, and you let him down over and over. Ryan has been more of a father to him in these past weeks than you have in the last year.”
Alex’s dad took a step closer, voice rising sharply. “Don’t you dare throw that in my face in front of everyone. You’re the one letting some stranger get this close to my son. What kind of mother does that?”
That was the breaking point.
Ryan moved then, smooth, deliberate, stepping slightly in front of you and Alex. His voice stayed low and controlled, but it carried steel. “Hey. That’s enough.” He didn’t raise his volume, but the quiet authority cut through the tension. “You don’t get to talk to her like that. She’s doing everything she can to give Alex a stable life while you keep letting him down. I’m not trying to replace you. I’m just the guy next door who actually shows up when it matters. And right now, that matters a hell of a lot more to Alex than your excuses.”
Alex’s dad glared at Ryan, fists clenched at his sides. “You think you’re better than me because you live next door and play backyard coach? Stay in your lane.”
Ryan didn’t back down, his hand still resting protectively near Alex’s shoulder. “My lane is being there when a kid needs someone reliable. If that bothers you, maybe look at why your own kid ran to me first.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Alex’s dad opened his mouth, then closed it, face flushed with anger and embarrassment. He shot you one last bitter look. “We’ll talk about this later. Alone.” Then he turned on his heel and stalked toward the parking lot, shoulders stiff.
A few parents awkwardly resumed clapping for the win, trying to ease the awkwardness. You knelt quickly, pulling Alex into your arms. “You played so well today, sweetheart. We’re both so proud of you.”
Alex hugged you back, still glancing toward where his dad had gone. “Is Dad mad at Mr. Ryan?”
Ryan crouched beside you both, voice gentle now. “He’s just upset he missed most of the game. But none of that changes how awesome you were out there.” He offered Alex a fist bump. “How about victory pizza at your house tonight? Just us three. We’ll celebrate the right way.”
Alex’s face brightened a little. “With raccoon stories after?”
You nodded, managing a tired smile as you looked at Ryan. “Pizza and stories sound perfect.”
The rest of the afternoon shifted back toward warmth. At home, Ryan helped set up the small celebration while Alex recounted every play with growing excitement. Board games followed, Ryan dramatically losing at Sorry to make Alex laugh, then winning Uno with playful Southern trash talk that had you both grinning. “Uno reverse on the whole family,” he teased, winking at you across the table.
Alex eventually crashed hard on the couch during the movie, the emotional day finally catching up. Ryan carried him to bed without a word, tucking the blanket carefully and whispering the next chapter of the raccoon adventure until Alex’s breathing evened out.
You waited in the hallway, adrenaline still humming from the confrontation. When Ryan stepped out and closed the door softly, the house felt suddenly intimate, just the two of you in the low light.
He stopped close, searching your face. “You okay? I didn’t mean to jump in like that, but I couldn’t stand hearing him talk to you that way.”
You stepped into his space, hand resting on his chest. “I’m glad you did. What I said out there… I meant every word. You show up, Ryan. For him. For me. I’m tired of pretending this is just neighbor stuff.”
Ryan’s breath caught. His hands settled on your waist, warm and sure, pulling you closer. “(Name)…” His voice was rough with restraint and longing. The months of porch lights, bike fixes, root beer confessions, and quiet yearning finally crested.
He leaned in.
The kiss started slow, tentative, full of everything you’d both been holding back. Then it deepened, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck as weeks of tension melted into heat. It was tender but hungry, his lips warm against yours, the faint taste of victory pizza and the steady strength that had become your safe place. No rush. No chaos. Just the two of you finally crossing the line that had been blurring since the day the moving truck left.
When you broke apart, foreheads resting together, Ryan let out a soft, shaky breath. “Been wanting to do that since the first time you invited me in for lemonade.”
“Me too,” you whispered, smiling against his mouth, fingers curling into his shirt. “Stay a little longer?”
He nodded, thumb brushing your cheek with gentle affection. “As long as you’ll have me.”
One year later
The backyard tree fort was finally finished.
It stood sturdy and proud in the big oak that straddled the old property line between your former house and Ryan’s, now simply *your* house. String lights Ryan and Alex had hung together twinkled softly in the late spring evening, and the fort itself had evolved from a simple platform into a proper little clubhouse complete with a handmade sign that read “Hart Family Fort” in Alex’s careful, slightly crooked handwriting.
You stood on the back porch, one hand resting on the gentle swell of your belly, watching the two most important people in your life put the finishing touches on the railing. Ryan was steadying the wood while Alex hammered the last few nails with fierce concentration.
“Almost done, Mom!” Alex called down, grinning ear to ear. At nine now, he had shot up several inches and carried himself with a quiet confidence he hadn’t had when you first moved in next door.
Ryan glanced over his shoulder at you, that familiar half-smile deepening when his eyes landed on your rounded stomach. “Careful on the ladder, buddy. Your mom’s already got enough to worry about with the little one on the way.”
The pregnancy had been a beautiful surprise, yours and Ryan’s first child together. A little girl, due in late summer. Ryan had been over the moon from the moment you told him, already reading bedtime stories to your belly and quietly fixing up the nursery in the room that used to be his guest space.
Alex climbed down carefully and ran over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist (or as much of it as he could reach now). “When the baby comes, can she sleep in the fort sometimes? With us?”
You laughed softly, running your fingers through his hair. “We’ll see, sweetheart. She’ll be pretty little at first.”
Alex pulled back just enough to look up at you, his expression turning thoughtful, the same one he got when he was working up to something important. “You know… it’s easier now that we all lived here together all the time. Like a real family. Don’t you think, Mom?”
Alex had been saying variations of this for weeks—ever since you’d officially moved in with Ryan three months ago. He wasn’t pushy, just honest in that pure, nine-year-old way.
Ryan wiped his hands on a rag and came over, crouching so he was eye-level with Alex. “It does feel pretty right having you both here.”
You smiled down at them, heart full. “It does feel right..”
Alex’s biological dad had tried harder in the past several months, more consistent visits, more texts, even showing up to a couple of games. But Alex had grown distant. The last time his dad had come to pick him up, Alex had stood quietly by Ryan’s side and said, “I want to stay home with my dad tonight.” The words had stung the other man, but Alex hadn’t wavered. To him, Ryan was his real dad, the one who showed up every single day, who built forts and told raccoon stories and never made him feel like an afterthought.
Ryan never pushed the issue or spoke badly about Alex’s dad. He simply continued being steady: helping with homework, coaching flag football, and now preparing for a new baby with the same quiet devotion.
That evening, after dinner, the three of you settled on the wide front porch. The low fence between the old houses had been taken down months ago, the yards fully joined. String lights stretched from your porch to the oak tree, casting a soft glow.
Alex curled up on the porch swing between you and Ryan, fighting sleep after the long day of fort-building. “Tell the raccoon story again?” he mumbled. “The one where the fort finally works.”
Ryan’s arm rested along the back of the swing, his fingers lightly brushing your shoulder. He started the familiar tale in that low, soothing drawl, adding new details about the baby raccoon who was about to join the family. Alex’s eyes grew heavy, his head eventually resting against Ryan’s side.
When Alex finally drifted off, Ryan carefully lifted him and carried him inside to bed. You followed, watching from the doorway as Ryan tucked the blanket around your son with the same gentle care he always showed.
Back on the porch, Ryan pulled you close on the swing, one large hand splaying protectively over your belly. The baby gave a soft kick, and Ryan’s face lit up with that quiet wonder he still couldn’t hide.
“Feel that?” you whispered.
“Every time,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Still can’t believe we’re doing this. A year ago I was just the guy next door fixing bike chains and wishing for something I thought I’d lost. Now I’ve got you, Alex calling me Dad, and a little girl on the way.”
You leaned into him, the porch light glowing steady above you both. “You deserve this, Ryan. All of it. You’ve been the steady one from the very beginning.”
He turned his head, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss, the kind that still made your heart race even after a year of them. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
The night air was cool and sweet with early summer. From inside, you could hear the faint creak of the house settling. Out here, the porch light continued to shine, warm, constant, no longer reaching across a fence but simply lighting the life you’d built together.
Alex’s biological dad still existed somewhere in the background, trying in his inconsistent way. But Alex had made his choice clear, and you and Ryan had chosen each other every single day since that first football toss in the driveway.
As Ryan’s hand gently rubbed circles on your belly and the baby kicked again, you felt the deep, quiet certainty that this was exactly where you were meant to be.
When a sharp-tongued new transfer clashes with stubborn Lieutenant Ryan Hart, the firehouse becomes a battlefield of wills and barely concealed tension. Their constant battles over tradition versus progress hide a dangerous spark neither wants to admit. But one night, after another heated argument spills from the station to Ryan’s house, the line between hate and desire finally snaps. What starts as stolen kisses and secret touches quickly ignites into something far more intense and far riskier.
The apparatus bay at Station 113 smelled like diesel, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of freshly cleaned turnout gear. You’d been here less than forty-eight hours, and already the place felt like a pressure cooker with your name on the gauge.
You stood near the engine, arms crossed, watching Lieutenant Ryan Hart run the morning briefing like he was born with a clipboard in one hand and a rodeo rope in the other. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that easy Southern confidence that came from growing up as Captain Don Hart’s son. His dark hair was still damp from the shower, and the navy Station 113 tee stretched across his chest in a way that made half the probies stare a little too long. He spoke with that low, measured drawl, calm, authoritative, every word wrapped in the invisible weight of legacy.
“Today’s drill focuses on high-rise stairwell ops,” Ryan said, tapping the whiteboard. “We stick to standard protocol. No deviations. We’ve got families counting on us to do this the right way.”
You couldn’t help it. The words were out before you could swallow them.
“With all due respect, Lieutenant,” you cut in, voice steady but edged with that analytical bite you’d never learned to soften, “standard protocol on those stairs adds almost ninety seconds of exposure time once the smoke hits the landing. If we reroute the second team using the exterior access ladder and pre-position the positive pressure fan here,” you stepped forward and pointed at the diagram he’d drawn, “we cut that down and keep the interior attack viable longer.”
The bay went dead quiet.
Ryan’s pen stopped mid-sentence. He turned his head slowly, hazel eyes locking onto yours. For a second, the only sound was the distant hum of the bay doors and someone’s radio crackling faintly in the background.
He didn’t raise his voice. He never did. That was part of what made him infuriating.
“New transfer, right?” His tone stayed polite, almost friendly, but there was steel underneath. “We don’t rewrite the book on day one, firefighter. The code’s there for a reason. It keeps people alive.”
You met his gaze without flinching. “The code also kept people in outdated tactics when better data showed otherwise. I’m not rewriting anything. I’m just pointing out what the numbers say.”
A few crew members shifted uncomfortably. You caught the side-eye from a couple of the older guys, loyal to the Hart name like it was gospel. Ryan’s jaw flexed once, that perfect Southern gentleman mask cracking just enough for you to see the competitive spark flare behind it.
“Appreciate the input,” he said flatly. “But we train the way we fight. And we fight the way my father built this house. Fall in line, or you’ll be on inventory until you remember how.”
He turned back to the board like the conversation was over.
You felt heat crawl up your neck, but you kept your mouth shut. For now.
The rest of the morning passed in a haze of pointed silence. Ryan assigned you to the rear of the engine for the drill, the spot that meant you’d eat diesel fumes and eat everyone else’s dust. Every time you tried to adjust a hose lay or suggest a faster knot, he was there, calm, immovable, correcting you with that same measured drawl.
“Left over right on the clove hitch, not the other way. We don’t improvise the basics here.”
You bit back the retort burning on your tongue. *I’ve run more complex extrications than most of this crew has seen in a year.* But you held it. Barely.
By the time the afternoon rolled around, the crew had started placing quiet bets in the kitchen. You overheard snippets while grabbing coffee.
“Five bucks says the new one lasts a week before Hart writes ’em up.”
“Ten says they throw hands in the bay first.”
You ignored it. You’d transferred into Station 113 because it had one of the busiest runs in Nashville, not because you needed friends. Your reputation from your old house preceded you: sharp, effective, occasionally mouthy when protocols got in the way of saving lives. You’d see that rigid thinking cost people everything. You weren’t about to watch it happen again.
The real spark came during the actual call that afternoon, a nasty multi-vehicle pile-up on I-65 involving an overturned big rig and three passenger cars. Smoke, fuel, trapped victims screaming. Chaos wrapped in twisted metal.
You moved on instinct when the second Engine 113 rolled up. While Ryan was directing the primary extrication team with textbook precision, you spotted the secondary victim pinned in the rear sedan, airway compromised, fire spreading faster than standard approach allowed.
“Lieutenant!” you shouted over the roar of the Jaws. “If we vent the rear window now and go through the trunk, we can reach her before the fire breaches the fuel line!”
Ryan didn’t even glance your way at first. He was focused on the driver, voice steady as he called for cribbing and a second set of tools. “Stick to your assignment!”
You didn’t. You grabbed the Halligan and made the call yourself—quick, calculated, the kind of move your old captain had both cursed and praised you for. Thirty seconds later, you had the victim out, coughing but breathing, just as the sedan flashed over.
The crew cheered when the ambulance pulled away with her. Ryan didn’t.
Back at the station, turnout coats still reeking of smoke, he cornered you in the gear room while everyone else was showering or refueling.
“What the hell was that?” His voice was low, controlled, but his eyes burned. Up close, he smelled like sweat and adrenaline and that faint hint of leather from whatever cowboy shit he did on his off days. “I gave an order. You went off-script in the middle of a live scene.”
You straightened, refusing to back down even though your heart was still hammering from the call. “Your script was going to get her killed. The numbers on fire spread didn’t lie. I made the better call.”
“You made my call look bad in front of the crew,” he shot back, stepping closer. The space between you crackled. “This isn’t your old house. We do things a certain way here. The Hart way. You undermine me again like that, and I’ll have you on probie duty so fast your head’ll spin.”
You laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Is that what this is about? Protecting the precious Hart legacy? God forbid someone points out that ‘the right way’ isn’t always the fastest way to save a life.”
Ryan’s expression hardened. For a moment, something raw flickered across his face, frustration, maybe even a flash of doubt, but it vanished behind the lieutenant mask.
“Watch yourself, firefighter,” he said quietly, the drawl thickening with warning. “You don’t know what it takes to run this station. And you sure as hell don’t know me.”
He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving you standing among the hanging coats, fists clenched, pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the call.
That night, the crew hit their usual spot, a rowdy honky-tonk on the edge of town where the beer was cold and the music loud enough to drown out shift trauma. You went because declining would look weak, but you kept to the corner of the bar, nursing a whiskey and scrolling through incident reports on your phone.
Ryan was there too, of course. Center of attention without even trying. He had a beer in hand, laughing at something one of the guys said, that easy cowboy charm on full display. Captain Don had stopped by for a quick round, clapping his son on the shoulder with obvious pride. The Hart men together looked like a damn billboard for legacy.
You couldn’t resist muttering under your breath when Ryan passed near your stool on his way to the bar. “Must be nice, having the family name do half the heavy lifting.”
He stopped. Turned. The smile he’d been wearing for the crew faded into something cooler, sharper.
“Care to say that louder?” he asked, voice deceptively mild.
You met his eyes. “Just observing, Lieutenant. Some of us actually have to earn respect the old-fashioned way, by being right when it counts.”
Ryan leaned in, close enough that you caught the scent of his aftershave mixed with beer. His voice dropped so only you could hear. “You think you’re the smartest one in every room, don’t you? Walking in here like you’re gonna fix everything we’ve been doing just fine for years. Newsflash: we save lives every shift without your little spreadsheets and attitude. Maybe try learning the code before you start tearing it down.”
Your pulse jumped. The air between you felt charged, like the moment before a backdraft. You hated how aware you were of his height, the way his shoulders filled out that worn flannel, the stubborn set of his jaw.
“And maybe you should try evolving the code before it gets someone killed,” you fired back, just as quiet, just as intense.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. His gaze flicked down to your mouth for half a second, probably accidental, before snapping back up. Then he straightened, that polite lieutenant mask sliding back into place.
“Enjoy your drink,” he said flatly. “Try not to choke on all that superiority.”
He walked away, rejoining his crew with a laugh like nothing had happened.
You stayed at the bar longer than you meant to, the whiskey burning hotter than it should have. The hostility sat heavy in your chest, mixed with something sharper you refused to name. Ryan Hart was everything you disliked on paper: rigid, legacy-protected, annoyingly competent, wrapped in that effortless Southern charm.
But the way he’d looked at you during the argument, like he was seeing you, really seeing you, even while wanting to throttle you, stuck in your mind long after you left the bar.
By the end of the week, the crew’s bets had shifted. No one expected fists in the bay anymore.
They were waiting to see which one of you would break first.
The weekend team-building event was mandatory, which meant there was no graceful way to bow out. Captain Don had signed the whole shift up for a community safety demonstration at the Nashville rodeo fairgrounds, teaching kids basic fire safety, running rope and knot demos, and showing off turnout gear to the public. It was the kind of wholesome PR that Station 113 did every few months, and Ryan Hart was in his element.
You showed up in jeans and a Station 113 polo, already dreading the forced proximity. The fairgrounds smelled like fried dough, hay, and horse sweat. Country music blared from speakers near the arena, and kids ran everywhere with cotton candy-sticky fingers. Ryan looked annoyingly at home in worn Wranglers, a faded flannel rolled up to his elbows, and scuffed boots that had clearly seen real ranch work. The modern-day cowboy lieutenant, complete with that easy Southern charm turned up to eleven for the civilians.
He was demonstrating rope handling to a group of wide-eyed kids when you walked past, dragging a bundle of practice line behind you. Without missing a beat, he called out, loud enough for half the booth to hear, “Careful with that coil, firefighter. Left over right on the clove hitch, unless you’re planning on improvising again and watching it slip.”
You stopped, turning with a tight smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Lieutenant. Wouldn’t want to bruise that delicate Hart ego by doing it better in front of the public.”
A few parents chuckled. Ryan’s grin sharpened, but his eyes held that competitive glint you’d grown used to. “Delicate? Darlin’, the only thing delicate around here is your grip on actual procedure. Come on over, show the kids how the ‘data-driven’ method looks when it falls apart.”
You dropped the rope and stepped into the demo circle, aware of the crew watching from nearby booths. “Fine. But when your traditional knot fails under tension, don’t cry to me about legacy methods.”
The kids loved it. You and Ryan ended up side-by-side, demonstrating opposing techniques, his classic cowboy style versus your more efficient, modern adjustments. The banter flowed fast and low between instructions, pitched just for each other.
“See how the lieutenant does it the old-fashioned way?” you told a little girl, loud enough for Ryan to hear. “Real pretty, but adds ten extra seconds when seconds count.”
Ryan leaned in while helping a boy with his loop, voice dropping. “And your fancy twist looks real smart until the smoke’s thick and your tablet’s dead. Then what, hotshot? Gonna calculate your way out with sarcasm?”
You bumped his shoulder “accidentally” while reaching for more line. “Better than roping my way through a flashover on pure stubbornness, cowboy.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound warmer than it had any right to be. “Stubborn? Says the one who’s been fighting me since day one like I personally rewrote the NFPA standards just to spite you.”
The demo wrapped with applause, but the tension between you didn’t dissipate. It followed you through the afternoon, shared lunch breaks where the crew ribbed you both about “the new rivalry,” and quiet moments hauling gear where Ryan would mutter corrections and you’d fire back with data points. By the time the sun dipped low and most families headed home, the crew was packing up trucks while Captain Don chatted with sponsors. Ryan caught your eye across the lot and jerked his head toward the quieter edge of the grounds. “Help me coil the extra line before it gets dark. That’s an order.”
You followed, mostly because refusing would look petty. The area behind the main arena was shadowed, away from the lights and noise. Hay bales and empty trailers created natural privacy. Ryan was already looping rope with practiced ease when you joined him.
“Still correcting me even when no one’s watching?” you asked, grabbing a bundle.
He didn’t look up immediately. “Habit. You make it easy when you keep doing things the hard way just to prove a point.”
You snorted. “The hard way? Says the guy whose entire leadership style is ‘because my dad did it this way.’ Must be exhausting, carrying that code around like a saddle that doesn’t fit anymore.”
Ryan straightened, rope forgotten in his hands. The easy banter from earlier had shifted into something heavier. His hazel eyes met yours in the fading light. “Exhausting? Try knowing every call is measured against Captain Don Hart’s shadow. One slip and it’s not just me who looks bad, it’s the whole house. You waltz in with your spreadsheets and attitude like you’re the first one to notice the world changed. Newsflash: I see the problems too. But tearing down the foundation without building something better just gets people killed.”
The admission landed heavier than expected. You set your coil down, crossing your arms. “I’m not tearing it down. I’m trying to reinforce it. I’ve watched rigid thinking cost lives, calls where ‘the code’ meant watching someone die because no one adapted. You’re good at your job, Hart. Really good. But sometimes good isn’t enough if it’s stuck in the past.”
He stepped closer, boots crunching on gravel. The air between you thickened, charged with all the weeks of clashing wills. “And sometimes adapting too fast without respect for what works gets someone hurt worse. You think I don’t lie awake running scenarios? Wondering if listening to the hot new transfer with the sharp tongue would’ve changed the outcome?”
Your pulse kicked up. The proximity made it impossible to ignore how tall he was, how the flannel stretched across his shoulders, the faint scent of hay and sweat and whatever soap he used that smelled unfairly good. “So you do think about it. About me. About whether I might be right.”
Ryan’s jaw flexed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I think about the job. And right now, I’m thinking about how damn frustrating you are, pushing every button like you were born to test me.”
You laughed, but it came out breathier than intended. “Test you? Lieutenant, you’ve been riding my ass since I walked in the bay. Reassigning me to inventory, correcting every knot, glaring across the apparatus floor like I insulted your horse. If anyone’s testing, it’s you, seeing how far you can push before I break.”
He moved even closer, voice dropping to that low drawl that sent unwelcome heat curling through you. “Maybe I want to see what happens when you push back. See if that smart mouth is good for anything besides arguing protocol and undermining my briefings.”
Your back hit the side of a trailer before you realized you’d been retreating. Ryan didn’t crowd you, but the space between you had vanished. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up, dark with something that had nothing to do with hostility anymore.
“Careful, cowboy,” you warned, though your voice lacked its usual bite. “Keep talking like that and someone might think the great Ryan Hart is losing control of the situation.”
A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his lips. “Losing control? Darlin’, I’ve been losing it since the day you opened your mouth in my briefing and told me my plan was slow. You know what’s worse? I keep thinking about that mouth. Wondering if it’d feel as sharp up close as it does across the bay.”
The words hit like a line being pulled taut. Your breath caught. “You’re insufferable. Arrogant, legacy-protected, and annoyingly competent. I should hate how much you get under my skin.”
“Mutual,” he murmured, one hand coming up to brace against the trailer beside your head. Not touching you, but close enough that the heat of him radiated. “You’re reckless with that analytical brain of yours. Mouthy. Stubborn as hell. And yet… every time we clash, I can’t stop thinking about shutting you up the old-fashioned way.”
Before you could fire back, Ryan leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle. It was sudden and rough, weeks of frustration and heat colliding as his mouth claimed yours. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wanted. You kissed him back just as fiercely, gripping the front of his flannel and pulling him closer, like you’d been dying to do this since the first time he corrected you in front of the crew. He tasted like iced tea and something warmer, deeper, salt, hay, and pure Ryan. The kiss was messy, hungry, his body pressing you back against the trailer as a low sound rumbled in his chest when you nipped his bottom lip. For a few heated seconds, the rivalry dissolved into pure want.
When he finally pulled back, just far enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you were breathing hard.
“Well… shit,” Ryan muttered, voice rough.
“Yeah,” you managed, lips still tingling. “Shit.”
He let out a low, rough laugh, but didn’t move away. His thumb brushed your jaw, surprisingly gentle after the intensity. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Worst idea,” you agreed, though your hands were still fisted in his shirt. “Chain of command. Your dad’s the captain. Station gossip travels faster than a damn siren. We can’t..”
Before you could finish, your lips met his again in a quick, heated kiss.
“I know,” he murmured against your mouth, then pulled back just enough to speak. His eyes searched yours, raw and unguarded. “No one can know. Not the crew. Not my father. Not a soul at 113. We keep it off the clock, completely separate. If it blows up, it blows up quietly.”
His lips found yours again, slower this time, like he couldn’t help himself.
You nodded, heart still racing, even as you stole one more brief kiss. “Agreed. Strictly off-duty. And if it stops working, it stops. No drama at the house.”
“Deal.” A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips—the first real one you’d seen aimed fully at you. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop calling you out on bad knots during drills, though. Can’t make it too obvious we’re not still at each other’s throats.”
You laughed softly, the sound surprising you. “Good. Because if you suddenly go easy on me, the crew will know something’s up. And I reserve the right to keep pointing out when your precious code is outdated.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, hotshot.” He leaned in again, capturing your lips in a deeper, harder kiss that felt like both a promise and a warning all at once. When he finally pulled back, his drawl was thicker, warmer. “Now get back to the trucks before someone notices we’ve been gone too long. And try not to look like you’ve been thoroughly kissed by the lieutenant you supposedly can’t stand.”
You smoothed your shirt, attempting to look unaffected even as your lips tingled. “Only if you stop looking like the cowboy who just lost a round to the new transfer.”
He smirked, stepping back and grabbing the rope coils like nothing had happened. “Lost? Darlin’, I think we both won that one.”
The drive back to the station was separate, of course. You rode with a couple of the crew, listening to them joke about the day while your mind replayed the kiss on loop, the heat, the frustration, the unexpected rightness of it. Ryan’s truck stayed in your rearview for part of the way, a silent reminder.
Back at Station 113 the next shift, nothing outwardly changed. Ryan ran briefings with the same steady authority, correcting your hose lays with that familiar edge. “Left over right, firefighter. We doing this again?”
You fired back without missing a beat, the banter now laced with hidden meaning. “Only because some of us prefer efficiency over tradition, Lieutenant. But sure, I’ll humor the code, for now.”
The crew rolled their eyes, used to the rivalry. No one suspected a thing.
But off-duty, it was different. The secret unfolded in careful, stolen pieces.
The first real off-duty night came mid-week. Ryan texted, short, coded: “Back road west of town. Truck. 8pm. Don’t be late, hotshot.”
You met him at a quiet pull-off overlooking a stretch of dark fields. His truck was parked facing the stars, tailgate down, a couple of beers sweating in a cooler. He looked relaxed in a simple tee and jeans, boots kicked up on the gate. No lieutenant stripes. Just Ryan.
You climbed up beside him, the metal cool under your palms. “Nice spot, cowboy. Private enough for you to admit I was right about the stairwell drill last shift?”
He handed you a beer, that crooked smile appearing again. “Not a chance. But I will admit your mouth is good for more than just arguing now.” He leaned over, kissing you slow and deep, like he’d been thinking about it since the fairgrounds. When he pulled back, his voice was rougher. “Been driving me crazy all shift, watching you bite your tongue every time I corrected you. Knowing what that tongue can do.”
Heat pooled low in your belly. The old rivalry flavored everything, playful, sharp, addictive. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might have to prove you wrong about a few more of your precious protocols. Starting right here.”
Ryan’s laugh was low and warm. He set the beers aside, pulling you closer until you straddled his lap on the tailgate. “Prove it, then. Show me how the analytical mind works when it’s not fighting me.”
He grabbed your waist and pulled you into his lap. Everything blurred into heated kisses, soft moans, and teasing licks along your throat. He nipped at your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while your hands roamed under his shirt. Your shirts were shoved halfway down your arms, pants undone and hanging low on your hips, but neither of you crossed that final line.
Not yet.
The tension finally snapped one night at Ryan’s house.
You’d shown up after a particularly sharp argument at the station, still fuming and ready to finish what you’d started. The moment the front door clicked shut behind you, the argument reignited, louder, hotter, more personal. One minute you were in the middle of calling him stubborn and outdated; the next, Ryan had you pinned against the wall in his living room, his body pressed hard between your legs.
Clothes were yanked off in a frantic rush. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he sank into you in one smooth, deep thrust. The sudden stretch and fullness pulled a sharp moan from your throat. Ryan groaned low against your neck, his grip on your hips tightening as he held himself still for a heartbeat, letting you feel every inch of him buried inside you.
“Fuck,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “You feel so goddamn good.”
You rocked against him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Then stop talking and move, Hart.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled back and drove back in, setting a hard, steady rhythm that had the framed photos on the wall rattling behind you. Each thrust pushed you higher against the wall, the slick slide of him filling you completely with every stroke. Your moans mixed with his low growls, the argument long forgotten in the heat of skin against skin and the relentless push and pull.
“Still think I’m stuck in the past?” he growled against your ear, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur.
You gasped, clenching around him. “Shut up and fuck me harder.”
Ryan let out a dark, breathless laugh and gave you exactly what you asked for.
Afterward, tangled together under a blanket on this bed, Ryan traced lazy circles on your arm. “This stays ours,” he murmured against your hair. “No station talk. No crew. Just… this. When we’re off the clock, I’m not Lieutenant Hart. I’m just Ryan. And you’re not the new transfer trying to rewrite my world. You’re the one who finally makes the code feel like it can bend without breaking.”
You nodded, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Agreed. But I am still gonna keep challenging you. It’s half the fun.”
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”
The weeks that followed settled into a careful rhythm. At the station, you were still oil and water, sharp comments during drills, pointed looks across the bay. The crew continued placing bets on when the rivalry would explode. Off-duty, it was stolen moments: late-night drives where Ryan played old country songs and taught you how to tie a proper rodeo knot, quiet mornings at your place where he’d cook simple breakfast and hum under his breath; charged encounters that always started with banter and ended with both of you breathless and closer than before.
One lazy Sunday, curled on your couch after a shift, Ryan admitted more than usual. His head rested in your lap while you ran fingers through his hair. “Never thought I’d say this to the person who drove me insane the first month… but you make the job feel less heavy. Like maybe the code can evolve and still be mine.”
You leaned down, kissing him softly. “And you make me remember why I love the work, even when you’re being an arrogant cowboy about it.”
He grinned up at you. “Arrogant? Says the one who still thinks her way is always better.”
“Most of the time it is,” you shot back, tugging his hair lightly. The playful argument dissolved into another kiss, deeper this time, the kind that promised more nights like this, secret, safe, and entirely yours.
The secrecy added its own heat. Every stolen glance at the station carried double meaning. Every “Left over right, firefighter” from Ryan now felt like foreplay. The enemies had become something far more dangerous.
Lovers
The shift started like any other, coffee brewing in the kitchen, gear checks echoing through the apparatus bay, and the familiar low hum of Station 113 coming to life. Ryan ran the morning briefing with his usual steady authority, that measured Southern drawl cutting through the chatter as he laid out priorities for the day. You played your part perfectly: tossing in a sarcastic jab during hose maintenance, rolling your eyes at one of his corrections, keeping the long-running “rivalry” alive for the crew.
No one suspected the truth. The barbs now carried hidden warmth, every “left over right, firefighter” from Ryan laced with memories of late-night tailgates, breathless kisses, and the secret rhythm you’d built off the clock.
Then Captain Don pulled Ryan aside after roll call.
You were restocking the ambulance bay when you caught it: Captain Don Hart stepping into his office with Ryan, the door closing with a quiet, final click. The conversation was brief. When Ryan emerged, his face was a careful blank, the lieutenant mask locked firmly in place, but you knew him too well now. The tension sat in his shoulders, the subtle clench along his jaw.
Internal Affairs had opened an investigation.
The call in question had come two weeks earlier: a hazardous materials incident at an industrial warehouse on the edge of Nashville. Leaking chemical tank, unstable structure, civilians trapped. As lieutenant, Ryan made the split-second decision to push an aggressive interior approach, deviating slightly from standard containment protocols based on real-time readings and crew positioning. It worked. The team contained the spill, rescued the workers, and prevented a larger explosion. Lives saved. A success by every measure that mattered.
But a bystander complaint and routine protocol review triggered IA. Questions swirled about risk assessment, potential influence from “non-traditional” crew input, and whether the Hart name made him believe he could bend the rules. Nepotism whispers spread like smoke through the station.
Captain Don stayed professionally neutral, protocol demanded it, but the weight pressed heavy. Ryan was his son, carrying the family code like armor.
The rest of the shift dragged in mechanical precision. Ryan moved through tasks with tight control: checking rigs, running drills, issuing orders in that calm drawl. The crew sensed something was off but chalked it up to “Hart being Hart” stoic, competitive, always proving himself. You kept the act flawless, firing off a light “Trying to set a new record for by-the-book today, Lieutenant?” during a gear check.
He shot back without hesitation, voice even. “Just making sure some people remember we don’t improvise when lives are on the line, hotshot.”
But his eyes lingered on yours a fraction longer, silent communication only you could read.
By evening, after most of the crew had scattered to bunks or the kitchen, the tension finally cracked.
You were wiping down tools when you heard Ryan’s boots heading toward the bunk room. He’d received the full details of the IA interview schedule earlier that afternoon. The door clicked shut behind him.
Your chest tightened. This was the first real test of the secret, the moment the job threatened to press too hard on the man you’d come to care for far beyond rivalry or stolen nights.
You waited a careful beat, ensuring no one was watching, then followed. The bunk room was dim, most lights off for the night shift crew trying to catch rest. Ryan sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hands were clasped tightly, knuckles showing white. The usual easy cowboy posture had vanished, replaced by raw exhaustion and the quiet burden of legacy.
He didn’t look up when the door opened.
You closed it softly and crossed the room. No banter. No performance. For the first time at the station, you dropped every layer of the act.
“Ryan,” you said quietly, his first name, soft and real, reserved for off-duty moments.
His head snapped up, hazel eyes widening in surprise and then guarded caution. “What are you..”
You didn’t let him finish. You stepped between his knees and pulled him into a firm hug, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Your fingers threaded gently into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him close. He stiffened for half a second, years of Hart discipline and lieutenant instincts screaming to maintain distance at the house, before the tension shattered.
Ryan exhaled shakily and leaned into you, arms circling your waist. His forehead pressed against your sternum, breath warm through your shirt. For a long moment, the bunk room was silent except for the distant station hum and the faint tick of the wall clock.
This was the first genuine interaction at Station 113 that wasn’t fake hostility. Just the two of you, secret, steady, real.
“You okay?” you murmured against the top of his head, voice barely above a whisper.
He let out a rough, humorless laugh that vibrated against you. “Been better. IA wants formal statements starting tomorrow. They’re digging into the hazmat call, asking if I ‘favored certain input’ or took unnecessary risks because of… family considerations.” His grip on your waist tightened briefly. “Dad’s staying neutral. Protocol. But I can feel it. Everyone watching to see if the Hart kid thinks the code doesn’t apply to him.”
You held him closer, one hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “The call was sound. You saved those workers. The data backed the approach, I saw the readings too. This is bullshit politics and paperwork. You followed your gut and your training. That’s the code, Ryan. Protecting people, even when it means adapting.”
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, eyes searching yours in the low light. The vulnerability there hit hard—the same man who’d kissed you fiercely on back roads, who’d admitted the weight of his father’s shadow in quiet moments.
“Doesn’t feel like it right now,” he admitted. “Feels like one wrong word and I’m letting him down. Letting the house down.” A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips despite everything. “And the worst part? I keep thinking about how you’d call me out on it off-duty. ‘Cowboy stubbornness overriding common sense again, Hart?’”
You smiled softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Only because it usually works. But not this time. You did it right. And when we’re out of here, away from all this, I’ll remind you of that properly. With fewer clothes and more convincing arguments.”
Ryan’s laugh was quieter, warmer. He rested his forehead against sternum for a brief second, the contact grounding. The old rivalry still flavored everything, but now it was laced with trust.
The moment stretched. The pull between you, the weeks of hidden heat, the relief of this private touch, proved too strong. Ryan stood and his hand slid up to cup the back of your neck. You met him halfway.
The kiss was soft at first, then deepened with quiet desperation, relief and need mixing in the dim bunk room. His lips moved against yours with familiar intensity, one hand anchoring at your waist while the other stayed gentle in your hair. You kissed him back just as fiercely but carefully, pouring reassurance into every brush of lips and shared breath. For a few stolen seconds, the station, the investigation, the code, all of it faded.
When you finally pulled apart, foreheads still touching and breathing uneven, a voice broke the silence from the doorway.
“Well, damn.”
You both froze.
Taylor Thompson, Roxie Alba, and Blue Bennings stood just inside the bunk room door, having slipped in unnoticed during the shift change. Taylor leaned against the frame with a knowing grin, arms crossed. Roxie’s eyebrows were raised, a small amused smile playing on her lips as she adjusted her paramedic jacket. Blue stood between them, looking equal parts surprised and smug, hands shoved in his pockets.
Ryan straightened instantly, but he didn’t pull away completely, his hand still resting lightly at your waist. You stepped back just enough to create plausible distance, heart hammering.
Taylor broke the silence first, voice warm with gospel-tinged amusement. “Y’all really thought you were slick, huh?”
Roxie chuckled softly, shaking her head. “The tension in this house has been thicker than smoke for weeks. We had a pool going on when it would finally boil over.”
Blue grinned wide, that easy newbie energy on full display. “Told you two it wasn’t just rivalry. Pay up, ladies. I called the bunk room moment.”
Ryan ran a hand through his hair, a rare flush creeping up his neck, but his drawl stayed steady, more resigned than defensive. “How long have you known?”
Taylor’s grin widened. “That you two were sneaking around and definitely not just fighting? Oh, honey, most of us figured it out after the rodeo fair. The way you two disappeared behind those trailers? Not exactly subtle to anyone paying attention.”
Roxie nodded, her tone light but kind. “Plus, the looks you’ve been trading during briefings lately? Way too heated for pure hate. We just didn’t say anything because… well, it’s your business. And we’ve all got our own secrets in this house.”
Blue shrugged, still smiling. “Hey, as long as it doesn’t affect calls, I’m good. Though I gotta say, watching you two pretend to bicker while obviously wanting to do… that? Entertainment gold.”
You let out a surprised laugh, the tension easing despite the exposure. “So the whole crew doesn’t know?”
“Not yet,” Taylor said, pushing off the doorframe. “And we’re not planning on spreading it. You kept it quiet for a reason, chain of command, the captain, all that Hart legacy stuff. We respect that. Just… maybe lock the door next time if you’re gonna steal a moment.”
Ryan exhaled, a mix of relief and lingering caution in his expression. He glanced at you, then back at the trio. “Appreciate it. This stays between us, for now. The investigation’s already got enough eyes on me. Last thing we need is station gossip turning into something bigger.”
Roxie’s smile softened. “We’ve got your backs. Both of you. Just be careful. And maybe tone down the ‘rivalry’ a notch before someone else starts connecting dots.”
Blue gave a mock salute. “My lips are sealed. But if you need an alibi for off-duty ‘tactical discussions,’ I’m your guy.”
The three filed out with quiet chuckles and supportive nods, leaving the bunk room feeling somehow lighter.
Ryan turned back to you, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… shit.”
You stepped closer again, voice low. “Could’ve been worse. At least they’re on our side.”
He pulled you into another quick, careful hug, this one briefer, more aware of the open door. “Yeah. Still… we keep it quiet as much as we can. The investigation first.”
You nodded against his shoulder. “Agreed. But off the clock? You still owe me that proper reminder I mentioned.”
His low chuckle vibrated through you. “Wouldn’t miss it, hotshot.”
The investigation dragged over the following days. Ryan handled interviews with quiet dignity, reviewing logs and statements while the crew offered subtle support, extra coffee from Taylor, a steady presence from Roxie during medical checks, even Blue covering a minor task without comment. Whispers of nepotism and aggressive leadership circulated, but they faded as quickly as they rose.
In secret, you remained his anchor. Late-night texts danced around the edges. Stolen off-shift moments in his truck or at your place let him vent, your analytical eye helping dissect the reports. “You adapted with the intel you had. That’s leadership.”
The old enemies dynamic flavored the support, you challenged him like before, but now to build him up. Intimate nights grew deeper under the strain, touches more grounding, banter turning tender.
One evening at your place, after a tough IA session, he admitted the deeper fear: “What if they decide the Hart name influenced it? What if I let Dad down, not just as a lieutenant, but as his son?”
You framed his face with your hands. “Then you show them the man I see, the one who risks everything to save lives, code or no code. The competitive cowboy who clashed with me for weeks and still ended up here. You’re not just Don Hart’s son. You’re Ryan. And that’s more than enough.”
He kissed you slow and deep, gratitude and need blending seamlessly.
The resolution came without spectacle. IA reviewed everything and dropped the matter mid-shift one afternoon: cleared. No formal action. The approach was justified; lives saved outweighed the nitpicks. Station gossip died down. Captain Don offered his son a subtle, proud nod in the bay later.
That night, after shift, you slipped away separately and met at the familiar back-road pull-off. Ryan’s truck tailgate was down, cold beers waiting, country radio low. Stars stretched wide over the fields.
You climbed up beside him, shoulders brushing. “Heard the good news. Code intact?”
Ryan handed you a beer, that crooked smile finally free and full. “Intact. And maybe… evolving a little.” He turned, hazel eyes warm. “Couldn’t have gotten through it without you. That hug in the bunk room, the first real one at the house, felt like the only steady thing. Even when we got caught.”
You leaned into his side, his arm wrapping around you naturally. “Had to. Couldn’t let the cowboy face it alone. And the crew knowing? Turns out it’s not the end of the world.”
He pressed a kiss to your temple, drawl thick with affection. “No. Makes this feel even more ours, quiet, protected, but not completely hidden anymore.” His voice dropped playfully. “Still… try not to drag me into any more bunk room kisses during shift. Unless the door’s locked.”
You grinned, tugging him closer. “No promises, Lieutenant. But I might let you demonstrate that rope work of yours later… off the clock.”
Ryan laughed outright, pulling you under the blanket. “Deal. But only if you admit my way isn’t always outdated.”
“Never,” you shot back, lips brushing his. “But I’ll keep challenging you anyway. It’s half the fun.”
The night settled around you, two firefighters, secret but steadier than before. The old rivalry had transformed into something deeper, worth every risk. No dramatic station-wide confession. No grand gestures. Just this: quiet beers, low music, intertwined hands, and the understanding that whatever came next, calls, family pressure, or life at 113, you’d face it together.
Summary: You and Ryan get into an argument and you leave the next day to take a drive so you can clear your mind.
The kitchen light cast long shadows across the counter as you slammed the cabinet door harder than necessary. Ryan stood on the opposite side of the island, arms crossed, jaw tight, the same stubborn set he'd inherited from his father.
"You promised you'd be home by eight," you said, voice low and sharp. "Not midnight. Not after shift drinks turned into 'just one more round.'"
Ryan exhaled through his nose. "It was one call that ran long, then the guys…"
"Always the guys. Always the job." You cut him off, the words tasting bitter. "I get it, Ryan. You're Lieutenant Hart. Duty first. Code. Whatever. But I'm not one of your probies waiting for orders. I needed you here tonight."
His green eyes flashed. "And I needed five minutes to decompress after pulling a kid out of a burning duplex. You think I wanted to stay late? You think I like coming home to this?"
The silence stretched, heavy and accusing.
You turned away first, grabbing your keys from the hook. "Fine. Go be the hero. I'll stop expecting anything."
He didn't stop you. Didn't follow. Just watched as you walked out, the door clicking shut like a period at the end of a sentence neither of you wanted to finish.
The next morning, the house felt too quiet. Ryan was already gone before dawn, his truck absent from the driveway, his coffee mug rinsed and upside down in the drainer like nothing had happened. You didn't text. He didn't either.
By afternoon, the silence had turned into something solid, pressing against your chest. You needed air. Needed to move. You grabbed your jacket, slid behind the wheel of your car, and drove, aimlessly at first, then farther, past the city limits where the roads narrowed and the trees thickened.
The sky had been gray all day, but now it cracked open. Rain hammered the windshield in sheets, the wipers struggling to keep up. Thunder rolled low and constant. You should've turned back, but the fight still burned in your veins, pushing you forward like momentum could outrun the ache.
Somewhere outside Franklin, the GPS lost signal. The road signs blurred in the downpour. You took a turn that looked right, then another, narrower, gravel instead of asphalt. The car hydroplaned once, twice. On the third, the tires caught a rut, the wheel jerked hard in your hands, and the front end slammed into a deep ditch. The airbag exploded against your face with brutal force, snapping your head sideways. Pain erupted across your skull, hot and immediate, something warm trickled down your temple, into your eye. Your vision swam. The engine ticked and died. Rain pounded the roof like gunfire.
Your phone had no signal, battery draining fast. You tried to sit up straighter, but dizziness hit like a wave, nausea rising. Blood soaked the collar of your shirt. The cut on your forehead was deep, ragged from the shattered side mirror's edge, and your left shoulder throbbed where the seatbelt had bitten in hard. You pressed your sleeve to the wound, but it kept bleeding, steady and worrying.
You sat there, shivering as the heat faded, replaying the argument in your head. Stupid. All of it. And now you were stuck, bleeding, alone in the middle of nowhere while he was probably at the station, pretending everything was fine.
At Station 113, Ryan's shift had been brutal, two structure fires, a multi-car pileup on I-65. He kept his head down, barked orders, avoided his dad's knowing glances. His phone stayed silent in his locker. No apology. No check-in. Just the job.
But around 6:30 p.m., something twisted in his gut. No reason. No call. Just a cold, insistent feeling that something was wrong. He'd felt it before, on bad calls, the ones that went sideways. He tried to shake it off, but it clung.
He found Cap in the apparatus bay, wiping down the engine.
"Dad," Ryan said, voice low.
Don Hart looked up, brow furrowing. "What's going on?"
"I don't know. Just... a feeling. (Name) and I gotten into it last night and she hasn't sent said anything to me. No word. Storm's getting worse out there. I need to check the backroads she likes to take when she's pissed."
Cap studied him for a beat, then nodded. No argument. "Take the brush truck. It's fueled, chains on. Radio in if you find anything. And Ryan, be careful."
Ryan was already moving.
The storm hadn't let up. Wind shoved at the heavy off-road vehicle as he drove the route he knew you'd sometimes take when you needed space, out past the city, toward the quieter backroads near the Harpeth. He called your number every few minutes. Straight to voicemail.
He found your car twenty-five minutes later, nose-down in the ditch, hazards long since dead. Heart slamming, he slid to a stop, lights flashing, and ran through the rain.
The driver's door was ajar. You were slumped over the wheel, pale, blood matting your hair and streaking down your face. Your breathing was shallow, eyes fluttering.
"Hey…hey, baby." His voice cracked as he reached in, fingers gentle but urgent on your neck, feeling for a pulse. Steady, but weak. "Talk to me. Please."
You stirred, groaned. "Ryan...?"
"Yeah. It's me." He unbuckled you carefully, checking your pupils, uneven, one blown wide from the head trauma. Blood everywhere. He cursed under his breath, grabbed the trauma kit from the rig, and pressed sterile gauze hard to the gash on your forehead. It was deep, probably needed stitches, maybe staples and you winced, trying to pull away. "Stay with me. Dispatch, this is the 118. I've got a single-vehicle off the road, female driver, severe head laceration, possible concussion. She's conscious but disoriented."
Back at the rig, he held pressure on the wound, your head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice rough. "I should've come home."
You leaned into him, cold and shaky. "I drove off mad. Stupid... shoulder hurts bad too."
He checked it, dislocated? Bruised badly at least. "We're getting you fixed. Just hold on."
Sirens cut through the storm minutes later. Engine 113 rolled up, lights piercing the rain. Cap jumped out first, face tight with worry as he saw you in Ryan's arms, blood on both of you.
"Jesus, kid," Don said, voice gruff but thick. He clapped a hand on Ryan's shoulder, then looked at you. "You had us all twisted up out here. Scared the hell out of your man. Good to see you're still kicking, even if you look like you went ten rounds with a tornado."
You managed a weak smile through the pain. "Sorry... for the drama."
Don shook his head. "Drama's our family specialty. Let's get you to the hospital."
The paramedics took over, IV, neck brace, backboard for caution. Ryan rode in the ambulance with you, never letting go of your hand. The cut needed twenty stitches and a CT scan confirmed a moderate concussion, plus a separated shoulder that would need time and PT. But you were alive. Stable.
In the ER bay later, after the chaos settled, Ryan sat beside your bed, thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Never again," he said quietly. "The silent treatment. The walking out. Any of it. I don't care how mad we get. We talk. Or we yell. But we don't let each other leave mad."
You squeezed his hand, eyes heavy but clear. "Deal.”
He leaned in, pressed a careful kiss to your unbandaged temple.
Summary: A century of bad blood should have kept them enemies forever. She’s the Thorne princess who grew up despising everything Raleigh. He’s the Hart firefighter who was raised to see Thornes as the enemy. But hate is a thin line from obsession, and obsession looks a lot like this.
The grand atrium of the Nashville Symphony Center buzzed with the polished hum of influence, the next week. Tonight's event was the "Legacy Forward" gala, a sleek affair honoring the "next generation" of Nashville's storied families: young heirs and heiresses like you and Ryan, expected to carry the torch of philanthropy, business, and service into the future. Your grandfather, Elias Thorne, had dragged you here with a wink and a warning: "Show 'em the Thornes ain't fading, darlin'." You'd come in a sleek red dress that hugged your curves like a dare, hair down in waves, ready to play the part but already itching for an exit.
Across the room, Edward Raleigh held court near the bar, his silver hair catching the light as he regaled a cluster of donors with tales of his latest hospital endowment. Elias stood a few feet away, nursing a bourbon, his expression tightening every time Edward's voice rose. The old feud simmered beneath the surface, but tonight it felt closer to boiling.
It started small, a casual remark from Edward about how "true legacy comes from saving lives, not spinning records." Elias fired back, voice sharp: "And some of us build souls, not just buy 'em with checks." The exchange escalated fast, voices rising over the music, drawing stares. Edward accused Elias of clinging to outdated glory; Elias called Edward a "glory thief" who'd built his empire on stolen ideas. The room tensed, whispers spreading like wildfire.
You caught Ryan's eye from across the crowd, him in a crisp black button-down tucked into Wranglers, boots polished but scuffed enough to scream "real cowboy." His jaw was set, hazel eyes flashing with the same frustration you felt. Before you could slip away, he nodded toward a side door, a silent "let's handle this." You followed, heart pounding, into a dimly lit side room, an unused green room with velvet chairs, a vanity table, and blessed quiet.
The door clicked shut behind you. Ryan rounded on you first, voice low and edged like a knife. "This is bullshit, Thorne. Your granddad's out there stirrin' the pot like he owns the damn room. Can't let the old man have one night without draggin' up ancient dirt?"
You stepped up, close enough to jab a finger at his chest. "My granddad? Yours started it, Raleigh, parading around like his money makes him a saint. Newsflash: writing checks doesn't erase the fact your family's been screwing mine over since the 1800s. But go ahead, defend the family hero. It fits your complex perfectly."
He laughed, bitter and sharp, crowding your space without touching. "Hero complex? That's rich comin' from the spoiled little buckle bunny who waltzes into every event like the world's her runway. What do you even do besides ride your granddad's coattails? Bat your lashes at cowboys, sip wine, and pretend you're above it all? You're all flash, no substance, princess in a tower who wouldn't last a day in the real world."
Heat flooded your face, fury twisting with something hotter. "Me? Spoiled? Look in the mirror, you arrogant rodeo brat. You strut around like Nashville's golden boy, firefighter by day, cowboy by night, soaking up applause like it's oxygen. But I see you, Ryan. You're just a trust-fund kid playing hero to make up for the fact your granddad's shadow's too big for you. Without that badge and that horse, who'd you even be?"
His eyes darkened, chest rising fast. "You don't know shit about me, Thorne. I've pulled people from fires, roped steers in storms, lived the grit while you've been…what? Polishing your family's dusty records? You're the definition of spoiled, high-maintenance, entitled, thinkin' the world owes you 'cause you're a Thorne. Buckle bunny through and through, chasin' attention without earnin' it."
You shoved him then, hard, palms flat against his chest. "Earn it? Like you 'earn' every pat on the back for doin' your damn job? You're the one with the ego the size of Tennessee, Hart. Spoiled rotten by all that Raleigh praise, thinkin' you're untouchable 'cause you can ride a bronc and flash a smile. But you're nothing but a…"
He snapped. One hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your throat, not to hurt, but with a firm, unyielding pressure that pinned you back against the wall, your head tilting up under the force. Your breath caught, pulse racing against his palm as he loomed over you, body pressing yours into the plaster. His eyes were black with rage, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jump.
"Shut your mouth," he growled, voice raw and low.
Then he crushed his lips to yours, hard, brutal, all teeth and fury. It wasn't a kiss; it was a punishment, his tongue invading, claiming, tasting like bourbon and anger. You gasped into it, hands fisting his shirt, nails digging in as you kissed back just as viciously, biting his lower lip until he hissed.
He didn't pull away. Instead, he tightened his grip on your throat just enough to make your head spin, then broke the kiss only to drag you from the wall. In two strides, he had you backed against the vanity table, ass hitting the edge with a thud that rattled the mirror. His free hand shoved your dress up over your hips in a rough yank, exposing you to the cool air, while his fingers hooked into your underwear and ripped them down your thighs, impatient, tearing the lace slightly before flinging them aside.
He dropped to his knees like a man possessed, shoulders forcing your legs apart wider. The hand on your throat slid away, only to grip your thigh hard enough to bruise, holding you open. His eyes flicked up to yours once, burning with pure, unfiltered anger, before he buried his face between your legs.
His mouth was merciless.
Tongue lashing out in hot, aggressive strokes, devouring you like he wanted to break you. He sucked hard on your clit, then plunged inside you, fucking you with his tongue in short, punishing thrusts. Every movement was fueled by rage, the way his fingers dug into your skin, the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive thighs, the low, guttural growls vibrating through you. It wasn't gentle; it was raw, furious, designed to make you unravel under the weight of his frustration.
You arched off the table, a broken cry escaping your lips as your hands flew to his hair, pulling hard. "Fuck you, Hart," you gasped, even as your hips bucked against his mouth.
He didn't stop, didn't even slow. If anything, your words made him rougher, tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless patterns while two fingers slammed inside you, curling deep and stroking that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. The anger poured out of him, turning every lick, every suck into a weapon, until you were shaking, thighs clamping around his head, coming undone with a scream he muffled by pressing harder against you.
When the waves finally crashed and ebbed, he rose slowly, lips glistening, chest heaving. His eyes met yours, still dark, still furious, but laced with something hungrier now.
His grin was feral as he yanked you closer.
He didn’t give you time to catch your breath.
Ryan’s eyes were still blazing, dark, furious, unsatisfied, as he rose from between your thighs. His lips were swollen and slick with you, chin glistening, but the anger hadn’t cooled; if anything, it had sharpened into something primal, something he couldn’t or wouldn’t leash anymore.
You were still trembling on the edge of the vanity table, dress rucked up around your waist, legs splayed, heart slamming against your ribs. He stared at you like you were both the problem and the only solution.
Without a word, he reached down and yanked his belt open, rough, impatient. The buckle clattered. His zipper rasped down. He shoved his pants and black boxer briefs past his hips in one harsh motion, freeing himself. He was already rock-hard, thick and flushed, the sight of him making your stomach clench with a fresh wave of heat and spite.
“You still think I’m just some spoiled rodeo kid?” he growled, voice low and shredded.
You lifted your chin, defiant even as your body betrayed you, aching, dripping, ready despite everything. “Prove me wrong, cowboy.”
That was all it took.
He stepped between your thighs again, gripped your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, and lined himself up in one brutal motion. No teasing. No slow slide. He thrust in deep, hard, burying himself to the hilt in a single punishing stroke that knocked the air out of your lungs.
You cried out, half pain, half pleasure, nails raking down his shoulders through his shirt. He didn’t pause. Didn’t let you adjust. He pulled back almost all the way and slammed back in, setting a rhythm that was fast, ruthless, angry. Every thrust drove the table against the wall with a dull thud-thud-thud that matched the frantic beat of your pulse.
“Fuck you,” he snarled against your ear, one hand sliding back up to wrap around your throat again, not choking, just holding, controlling the angle so he could watch your face while he wrecked you. “Fuck you for lookin’ at me like that. For makin’ me want this. For bein’ so goddamn perfect when you’re hatin’ me.”
You laughed, breathless, broken, clenching around him on purpose just to make him groan. “You’re the one who can’t keep it together, Raleigh. Hero complex got you this worked up? Pathetic.”
He bared his teeth, hips snapping harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the small room. “Keep talkin’. See how long that mouth lasts.”
His free hand shoved one of your legs higher, hooking it over his forearm so he could angle even deeper. The new position made you see stars, every brutal stroke hitting that spot inside you that turned your curses into whimpers. You hated how good it felt. Hated how much you needed it. Hated him.
And yet your hips rolled up to meet every punishing thrust, chasing more, nails scoring red lines down his neck.
He leaned in, mouth crashing against yours again, messy, biting, tasting like rage and sex and the faint copper of where you’d drawn blood earlier. His hand on your throat flexed once, possessive, grounding as he fucked into you faster, chasing his own edge with the same fury he’d used on your pussy minutes ago.
“You feel that?” he rasped against your lips. “That’s what happens when you push me too far, princess. You get this.”
You clenched around him deliberately, watching his control fracture. “Then finish it, cowboy. Or are you all talk?”
That snapped something in him.
He drove in one last time, deep, grinding, hips flush against yours and came with a low, guttural groan that vibrated through your whole body. Hot pulses filled you, his fingers digging into your hip and throat like he was anchoring himself to you while he shuddered through it.
You weren’t far behind.
The friction, the anger, the sheer intensity of him unraveling inside you tipped you over again. Your second orgasm ripped through you, sharper, meaner, back arching off the table, a choked cry muffled against his shoulder as you bit down hard enough to mark him.
For several long seconds neither of you moved.
Just ragged breathing. Sweat-slick skin. The faint tremor in his thighs where he was still buried inside you.
Slowly, reluctantly, he eased his grip on your throat, thumb brushing the spot where your pulse still hammered. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes closed, like he was trying to remember how to be human again.
You swallowed, voice hoarse. “This… doesn’t mean anything.”
He huffed a dark laugh against your mouth. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Thorne.”
He pulled out slowly, careful now, almost gentle, and you hissed at the sudden emptiness. He steadied you as your legs slid down, feet finding the floor on shaky limbs. Your dress fell back into place, wrinkled and askew; his pants were still around his thighs. He tucked himself away with mechanical movements, belt clinking as he fastened it.
Summary: A century of bad blood should have kept them enemies forever. She’s the Thorne princess who grew up despising everything Raleigh. He’s the Hart firefighter who was raised to see Thornes as the enemy. But hate is a thin line from obsession, and obsession looks a lot like this.
The Grand Ballroom of the historic Hermitage Hotel in downtown Nashville shimmered under the soft glow of massive crystal chandeliers, their prisms scattering light across ornate Russian walnut paneling and an intricately painted ceiling that evoked the grandeur of a bygone era. Nearly 2,500 square feet of unobstructed elegance hosted tonight's gala, the air thick with the mingled scents of aged oak, blooming white orchids arranged in towering centerpieces, the rich notes of vintage Cabernet and Pinot Noir, and the faint polish of old-money prestige that clung to the city's most storied venue like a second skin.
This black-tie affair honored Nashville's quiet giants, those whose philanthropy had quietly rebuilt hospitals, funded life-saving research, expanded clinics in forgotten corners of Middle Tennessee, and sustained the cultural heartbeat that made the city more than just honky-tonks and neon. Tonight's twin honorees stood as pillars of two very different legacies: your grandfather, Elias Thorne, a lifelong champion of music preservation, who had poured decades into archives, festivals, and education programs that kept bluegrass, country, and early gospel traditions from fading into obscurity; and Edward Raleigh, the stoic patriarch whose family's foundations had silently transformed healthcare across the region, bankrolling pediatric wings in rural counties, state-of-the-art equipment for Village West Hospital, mental health initiatives, emergency responder training, and grants that had touched thousands of lives without ever demanding a spotlight.
You sat at the Thorne family table in a floor-length emerald gown that caught the chandelier light like deep forest jade, the silk shifting with every subtle movement. Your fingers toyed with the stem of a Pinot Noir glass, watching the crimson liquid catch firelight flickers as the emcee continued his effusive tribute to Edward Raleigh: "a visionary whose commitment has healed Nashville's very heart," whose quiet millions had built not monuments to ego but lifelines for the vulnerable. Each mention of the Raleigh name twisted something sharp in your chest, a familiar ache passed down like an heirloom.
The Raleighs moved through society like benevolent monarchs, their endowments granting them an unspoken claim on the city's admiration and, some whispered, its decisions. The feud between your families stretched back over a century: tales of a shady 19th-century land transaction along the Cumberland River, where a Raleigh forebear allegedly strong-armed your ancestors out of prime acreage during Nashville's explosive early expansion; followed by claims that they had appropriated and profited handsomely from a groundbreaking medical supply innovation your great-grandfather had pioneered before the Thornes shifted focus to cultural endeavors. The bitterness had simmered through generations, flaring at every overlapping charity ball, boardroom negotiation, or auction where both names appeared on the donor list.
You allowed yourself a discreet eye-roll as yet another silver-haired benefactor rose to toast "the Raleigh legacy of unwavering compassion and forward-thinking progress." Compassion, you thought acidly, or simply the most polished form of influence-buying?
Your grandfather, still striking in his charcoal tuxedo despite the gentle stoop time had given him, noticed the gesture and leaned in, his voice a warm, gravelly comfort. "Easy now, sweetheart. We're here for the music folks helped save and whatever dessert they haven't ruined with too much foam. Let the ghosts rattle their chains somewhere else tonight."
You mustered a small smile and brushed a kiss against his weathered cheek. "I know, Pops. Just... need a breather. Ladies' room."
He patted your hand with quiet understanding. "These speeches could put a caffeinated rooster to sleep. Go on. I'll guard the chocolate torte with my life."
You slipped away gracefully, heels whispering across the marble floor as you wove between tables of beaming donors, politicians, and old-guard power players. The ballroom's relentless praise for the Raleighs scraped against your nerves like fine-grit sandpaper; another round of applause for their "selfless" impact might send you screaming.
The French doors to the private terrace beckoned. You pushed through into the cool night, Nashville sprawling below in a glittering mosaic: Broadway's neon blaze, the distant throb of live music drifting up like river mist, the Cumberland reflecting city lights in fractured silver. You leaned against the stone balustrade, drawing a slow breath, willing the knot in your chest to loosen.
You didn't stay alone for long.
Measured footsteps approached. You turned to find Ryan Hart stepping into the moonlight, Edward Raleigh's grandson, the so-called "golden heir" with a firefighter's rough edges. Lieutenant Ryan Hart of Station 113, son of Captain Don Hart. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a tailored navy suit that fit like it had been cut for action as much as elegance, dark hair tousled by the breeze, hazel eyes sharp with quiet amusement as they locked on yours.
"Hart," you said coolly, the name heavy with inherited weight. "Didn't figure you'd duck out on your family's coronation."
He halted at a polite distance, leaning one hip against the railing with that effortless, loose-limbed confidence. "Thorne. Knew you'd be out here. Your granddad's speech was good, music as soul-medicine and all. But inside? Too much halo-buffing for one night."
You lifted a brow. "Says the grandson of the man they're about to saint. Ventilators, pediatric wings, community wellness, one seven-figure check at a time."
His mouth curved into a half-smirk that was equal parts infuriating and magnetic. He studied you, head tilted, like you were a riddle he enjoyed too much. "Easy there. Soundin' a touch envious. What, fiddles and old 78s not gettin' the same shine tonight? Must burn when the city cares more about saving lives than saving vinyl."
You laughed once, sharp and incredulous, stepping closer before you could stop yourself. His scent, cedar, leather, faint smoke brushed against you. "Envious? Of your family's parade of tax-deductible virtue? Hardly. At least Pops built something lasting, culture, memory, heart. Your granddad just signs checks so they name buildings after him. That's not legacy, Ryan. That's marketing."
His amusement flickered into something edgier, eyes narrowing. "Marketing? Comin' from the family still coastin' on a name that peaked when folks rode streetcars to the Opry? Y'all act like preservin' dusty tunes makes you holy, but last I checked, no one's life got saved by a perfectly restored Dobro."
Heat rose in your cheeks, anger tangling with something dangerously electric. "At least we don't launder history with good PR. Your people didn't just 'fund' hospitals, they bought leverage. Land grabs, backroom deals, pushing out anyone in the way. Ring any bells? Or did Edward rewrite that chapter too?"
Ryan straightened, closing the gap until you had to tip your head back to hold his gaze. His jaw flexed. "You want history? Your great-granddaddy jacked up prices on medical gauze during the worst flu outbreak the city ever saw. My family bought him out at market rate so hospitals could actually stock supplies. But sure, keep spinnin' it as theft. Makes the hate easier to carry, doesn't it?"
The words stung. You drew a sharp breath. "Market rate after eminent-domain threats and lowballs? Your definition of 'fair' has always meant 'whatever benefits Raleighs.'"
He gave a short, bitter laugh. "And yours means clutchin' grudges like family silver. Wake up, darlin', Nashville's moved on. Only ones still fightin' are two old men who probably forgot the original sin years ago."
Silence stretched. City lights pulsed below, indifferent. Your pulse thundered; his gaze dipped to your mouth, lingering, and when it returned to your eyes, the heat there wasn't purely anger.
"You hate me that much?" he asked, voice low, almost lost in the night.
You swallowed. "I hate what you stand for."
"Same thing." He leaned fractionally closer. "Except I don't buy that's all anymore. Not when you're this close and haven't walked away."
Your breath caught. Every barb exchanged felt like fuel now, stoking something reckless and unnamed. The ballroom doors stood ajar behind you, laughter and strings leaking out, a reminder of the world that demanded you keep up the feud.
But here, inches from Ryan Hart, Raleigh blood, firefighter steel, that maddening half-smile, the old lines felt fragile as paper.
You lifted your chin, voice softer than intended. "Don't flatter yourself.”
Weeks later, the dust hung heavy at the Williamson County AG Expo Park in Franklin, a gritty haze of red clay, horse sweat, and adrenaline kicked up by every twisting bronc and spinning barrel. The grandstands thrummed with sunburned families, clinking beer cups, and the electric hum of anticipation. Your grandfather had dragged you along, "A Thorne supports real Tennessee grit, and my old rodeo pal's ridin' tonight", so here you sat, wedged between weathered cowboys in sweat-stained Stetsons and starched Wranglers, the air thick with leather, manure, and bargain cologne.
You'd dressed down: fitted jeans, worn boots, black tank under an open flannel. Nothing flashy, yet you'd already fielded a few lines, "Here for the broncs or the cowboys, sweetheart?" and fired back dryly enough to earn laughs and respectful space.
The announcer's voice boomed: "Next in bareback bronc ridin', we got Captain Don Hart out of Station 113, followed by his son, Lieutenant Ryan Hart!"
The crowd erupted. You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
Don rode first, steady, grinning like he'd stared down worse than any horse. He marked out clean, spurs flashing in rhythm, held the full eight seconds with textbook control, dismounted smooth, and tipped his hat to an 87-point roar.
Then Ryan.
You spotted him in the chute: black hat low, dark chaps scuffed from use, shoulders set with that same infuriating confidence. He scanned the stands once, eyes finding yours for a heartbeat and flashed a slow, knowing smirk before focusing on the bronc.
The gate flew open.
Widowmaker, a wicked gray beast, exploded out, sunfishing, twisting, all fury and teeth. Ryan came whipping, body arched perfectly, free arm high and whipping like a banner. He spurred in relentless rhythm: heels rolling from neck to rigging with each buck, toes turned out, matching the horse's violent motion like they were one creature. The bronc tried to bury him; Ryan rode fluid and ruthless, grinning through the chaos. Buzzer. Eight seconds. He kicked free, landed light, threw both arms skyward as if claiming the night.
The stands detonated. Cowboys whooped, one slamming your shoulder hard enough to jolt you. "That's how it's done!"
Ryan didn't exit with the others. He jogged straight for your section, vaulted the railing in one fluid leap, boots thudding inches from yours. Sweat gleamed on his neck, dust streaked his face; the scent of horse, leather, and raw adrenaline rolled off him like heat.
"Thorne," he rasped, voice rough from the ride and the roar. "Didn't peg you for slummin' with the dirt crowd. Thought you'd be back at the Hermitage sippin' bubbly and passin' judgment from on high."
You crossed your arms. "Didn't think you'd actually stay on for once instead of eatin' arena for the highlight reel. Nice job not humiliatin' yourself, Hart."
He laughed low, dark, vibrating through the narrowing space between you. "Careful, princess. Talk like that and these boys might think you're sweet on me."
A nearby cowboy chuckled. "She's holdin' her own just fine, Ryan. Girl's got teeth."
Ryan's gaze stayed locked on yours. "Yeah. I noticed."
You stepped in, voice low under the next rider's intro. "Don't get cocky. I'm here for the horses, not the egos. You and your daddy can keep peacocking like eight seconds makes you kings."
He leaned closer, hat brim shadowing his eyes, breath warm against your ear. "You watched awful close for someone who don't care. Saw you tense when Widowmaker nearly slung me. Worried I'd break somethin', Thorne?"
Heat flooded your neck. "Worried you'd snap your neck and tarnish the precious Raleigh name? Maybe. Mostly hopin' you'd eat dirt so I could laugh guilt-free."
His grin turned slow, predatory. "You're damn cute when you're fired up. Makes me wanna haul you behind the chutes and show you how a real cowboy handles somethin' wild."
The cowboys hooted "Get a room!" and you shoved a palm against his chest: solid, sweat-damp muscle under thin cotton. "Keep dreamin', cowboy. I'd sooner ride Widowmaker bareback than let you think you've got a chance."
He didn't retreat far. Just glanced down at your hand still pressed there, then back up, eyes gone dark with intent beyond amusement.
"Careful what you wish for, darlin'," he murmured. "One day I might oblige."
He tipped his hat, mocking, deliberate, then sauntered back toward the chutes, the crowd still chanting his name. The cowboys around you immediately started in: "Girl, you got him twisted up tight. You sure he hates you?"
You glared after his retreating figure, heart slamming harder than it had any right to.
"Yeah," you muttered, half to yourself. "I'm sure.”
Summary; Ryan Hart has faced fires, wrecks, and impossible calls but nothing prepares him for recognizing your car at the scene of a catastrophic crash. As Station 113 works to save your life, Ryan must confront the fear every firefighter’s partner carries in silence. A story of trauma, healing, and choosing love again after everything almost ends.
You'd always known loving a firefighter meant carrying a quiet fear in the back of your mind. Ryan Hart was Station 113's steady lieutenant, broad-shouldered, quick with a grin, the kind of man who ran toward explosions while everyone else ran away. Three years together had turned that fear into something manageable. You knew his routines, his team's rhythm. You'd brought coffee to long shifts, laughed at Blue's terrible jokes, listened to Don's quiet stories about the old days.
That morning was soft and ordinary. Ryan was already up, brewing coffee in the kitchen of your Nashville apartment. He wore an old Station 113 shirt, sleeves pushed up to show the ink on his forearms. He handed you your mug, black, one sugar, without looking.
"Mornin'," he said, voice still rough from sleep.
You leaned against him, stealing a sip from his cup too. "Morning. You working late?"
"Probably. Dad's got us running extrication drills all afternoon." He kissed the top of your head. "Text me when you get to your meeting, okay?"
"Promise." You kissed him properly, slow, familiar, then grabbed your keys.
The interstate was busy but flowing. You were ten minutes from downtown when the semi-truck crossed the center line. No horn, no swerve warning. Just impact. Your car spun violently, tires screaming, then flipped. The world turned over once, twice. Metal tore. Glass exploded. When it stopped, you were upside down, pinned by the collapsed dashboard. Your left leg was crushed beneath twisted steel; sharp pain radiated from your ribs with every shallow breath. Blood ran into your eyes. Something warm and wet pooled under your thigh, too much blood.
You tried to move. Couldn't. Your phone was gone. All you could do was whisper, "Please…"
Ryan was halfway into his gear when the call came. Blue grabbed the truck keys. Taylor and Rox loaded the ambulance in seconds. Captain Don Hart climbed into the officer's seat, face already set.
They rolled code 3, lights and sirens carving through traffic.
Ryan stared at the dispatch screen, unease crawling up his spine. You should've texted by now. He pulled out his phone. No message. "She's probably just running late," he muttered, but the knot in his stomach tightened.
The scene was carnage. The semi lay on its side, trailer split open. Cars were mangled in every direction. Your blue sedan rested on its roof against the guardrail, driver's compartment crushed inward like a tin can.
Ryan recognized the sunflower sticker instantly.
He was out of the truck before it stopped moving.
"Y/N!"
"Ryan!" Don barked, but Ryan was already at the wreck.
He dropped to his knees beside the shattered driver's window. You were conscious barely. Blood soaked your shirt, your face gray. Your left leg was pinned at an unnatural angle, femur visibly broken through the skin in a compound fracture, arterial bleed pulsing with each heartbeat.
"Baby, hey, look at me." His voice cracked. "I'm here. We're getting you out."
Your lips moved. "Ryan… cold…"
Blue reached them first, eyes wide. "Jesus. That's her."
Taylor crawled in through the passenger window, already reaching for your wrist. "Pulse thready—tachycardic. She's bleeding bad. Compound femur, open, arterial. Possible hemothorax on the left. We need to move fast."
Rox passed in trauma shears and a tourniquet. "BP crashing. 80 palp. She's in shock."
Captain Don arrived, assessed in two seconds. His jaw locked when he saw you. "Blue, stabilize the car. Ryan, jaws with me. Taylor, Rox, control that bleed."
Blue wedged blocks and straps, hands steady despite the tremor in his voice. "Hold on, Y/N. Just hold on."
Ryan and Don worked the hydraulic spreader in grim silence. Metal screamed as they forced the doorframe apart. Ryan's arms burned, but he didn't slow. He couldn't look at the blood soaking your jeans and not keep moving.
"Door's coming," Don grunted. "Easy now."
The frame gave. Taylor applied direct pressure to the open fracture while Rox slid a pelvic binder higher and started two large-bore IVs. "She's lost a lot. We need to package and go. Now."
They slid the backboard under you. The movement drew a raw scream from your throat as the broken bone shifted. Ryan held your head and neck the entire way, murmuring, "I'm sorry, darlin'. Almost there."
On the stretcher you were pale, shivering, eyes glassy. Rox kept pressure on the wound while Taylor hung blood products from the rapid infuser. "Move!" Taylor yelled to the driver.
Ryan climbed in beside you, gloved hand gripping yours. "Stay with me. Eyes open."
You tried to focus on him. "Love… you."
"Love you more." His voice broke. "Don't you dare leave me."
The ambulance flew toward Vanderbilt's trauma bay, sirens howling.
Inside the ER, it was controlled chaos. You were rushed to surgery within minutes, massive transfusion protocol, external fixation on the femur, chest tube for the hemothorax, repair of a lacerated spleen. Hours dragged.
Ryan waited in blood-streaked turnout gear, staring at the floor. Blue sat beside him, silent for once. Taylor and Rox came and went, bringing updates, coffee nobody drank.
Don finally sat across from Ryan. "She's strong. Surgeon said the bleed's controlled. They're stabilizing her now."
Ryan nodded, throat too tight to speak.
When they let him in, you were intubated, monitors beeping steadily. Tubes and lines everywhere. He pulled a chair close, took your hand, the one without the IV, and pressed it to his lips.
"You did good," he whispered. "Fought like hell."
The next forty-eight hours were touch-and-go. You coded once in ICU, ventricular fibrillation from blood loss and electrolyte shifts. Ryan watched through the glass as they shocked you back. He didn't move until Don physically pulled him to sit.
"She's back in rhythm," Don said quietly. "She's still fighting."
By day three, they extubated you. Your voice was a rasp. Ryan never left your side.
"Hey," you croaked when your eyes focused.
"Hey." He brushed damp hair from your forehead. "Welcome back."
"Hurts… everywhere."
"I know." He swallowed hard. "But you're here. That's what matters."
The team filtered in quietly over the next days. Blue brought a deck of cards and played terrible hands just to make you smile. Taylor updated you on station gossip. Rox checked your dressings with gentle precision and left small comforts—a heated blanket, lip balm.
Don came last one evening, cap in hand. He stood at the foot of the bed, looking older than usual.
"You scared us, kid," he said gruffly.
"Sorry, Don."
He shook his head. "Don't be. You fought. That's what counts." He cleared his throat. "When you're up and around again, barbecue at my place. No excuses."
You managed a weak smile. "Yes, sir."
Recovery stretched long and brutal—multiple surgeries, weeks in the hospital, then months of physical therapy. The compound fracture left nerve damage; you still limped on bad days. The ribs and spleen healed slower than anyone liked. Ryan took family medical leave, learned to help with transfers, drove you to every appointment.
One clear evening in late spring, he took you to the rooftop of your building. You moved slowly with a cane, his arm steady around your waist. The city glittered below.
He stopped near the railing, turned to face you.
"Three years ago you walked into my life and made it better than I ever thought it could be," he said quietly. "That day on the interstate… I thought I lost you. I can't do this without you. I don't want to."
He dropped to one knee, small velvet box in his hand. The ring was simple—white gold, one clear diamond.
"Marry me, Y/N. Let me spend the rest of my life taking care of you the way you've always taken care of me."
Tears slipped down your cheeks. "Yes."
He slid the ring on, stood, and kissed you—careful, deep, full of everything you'd both almost lost.
Back at the station the following week, the team threw a low-key celebration in the bay. Don grilled, Blue cranked music, Taylor and Rox strung lights across the apparatus floor.
Don pulled you aside near the engine, voice low. "Proud of you. Both of you."
You hugged him. "Couldn't have made it without any of you."
Ryan wrapped his arms around you from behind as the night wound down. "Ready for whatever comes next?"
You leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back.
Summary; The tornado sirens wail across Nashville like a banshee's scream, cutting through the heavy air of Station 113. You're supposed to be home by now, your shift at the hospital ended hours ago, but the storm hit fast, twisting the sky into a bruised, furious gray. Ryan paces the apparatus bay, phone pressed to his ear for the fifth time. Voicemail. Again.
"Come on, pick up," he mutters, thumb jabbing redial. His heart hammers against his ribs, each unanswered ring twisting the knot in his gut tighter. You're tough; he knows that. You've patched him up after bad calls, laughed off his overprotectiveness. But this? Tornadoes don't care about toughness.
The crew mills around, checking gear, eyes on the radar screen where the red blob pulses like a living thing. His dad from the doorway, arms crossed, that stoic mask he wears when things get real. Ryan catches his eye, but looks away, dialing again.
"Ryan." Dad's voice is low, steady. The kind he uses on rookies freaking out on their first structure fire. "She's probably hunkered down. Phone lines are jammed everywhere."
Ryan shakes his head, breath coming short. "She always texts. Always. 'Storm's bad, staying put.' Something. Anything." His free hand clenches into a fist, nails biting into his palm. The panic is there now, rising like floodwater..cold, insistent, seeping into his bones. What if the power's out? What if she's driving? What if..
"Son." Dad steps closer, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Firm. Grounding. "Breathe. We've got our own calls stacking up. You can't help her if you're spinning out."
Ryan jerks away. "Don't tell me to calm down. That's my.." He stops, swallows the word everything. But it hangs there anyway. You are. The one who makes the chaos make sense. "I need to know she's okay."
Dad's eyes soften, just a fraction…the captain giving way to the father. "I get it. But panicking won't change a damn thing. Trust she's smart. She'll call when she can."
Ryan nods, but it's mechanical. The panic doesn't listen. It claws higher, imagining worst-case scenarios: debris flying, trees down, your car skidding off the road. He pockets his phone, but his hand twitches toward it every few seconds.
Then dispatch crackles over the speakers: "Station 113, respond to vehicle accident, possible submersion. Single car overturned in retention pond off Briley Parkway. Tornado damage reported in area. Caller states vehicle entered water during high winds."
The crew moves like clockwork…gear on, engines roaring to life. Ryan slides into his seat on the engine, jaw set, but his mind is elsewhere. Briley Parkway. That's your route home. No. Coincidence. Nashville's full of cars.
The drive is a blur of howling wind and flashing lights, debris scattering like confetti from hell. Rain lashes the windshield, wipers fighting a losing battle. Ryan stares out, phone in hand..no bars, no signal. The panic is a live wire now, buzzing in his veins, making his leg bounce uncontrollably.
They round the bend, and there it is: the pond, swollen and angry, a crumpled shape half-submerged at the edge. The car is upside down, roof crushed, wheels spinning lazily in the current.
Ryan's world tilts. He knows that car. The dent on the fender from that icy patch last winter. The faded bumper sticker you refused to peel off. Yours.
"No." The word rips out of him, low and guttural. He's unbuckling before the truck even slows, door flung open as tires skid on wet gravel.
“Ryan!" Dad's shout echoes, but Ryan's already out, boots pounding the mud, sliding down the embankment toward the water. The wind whips at him, rain stinging like needles, but he doesn't feel it. All he feels is the ice in his chest, the terror screaming too late, too late.
"Ryan!" Dad's voice again, closer now, the crew scrambling behind. Someone grabs his arm, probably Blue but he shakes them off, wading into the pond. Water surges to his knees, then thighs, cold as death.
"It's hers!" he yells back, voice cracking. "It's her car!"
Confirmation hits like a punch: your license plate, half-buried in muck. He dives toward the driver's side, flashlight beam cutting through the murk. The window's shattered, glass floating like jagged ice. There you are, slumped against the seatbelt, water up to your chest, unmoving.
Panic explodes into action. "Victim inside! Unresponsive!" He's yelling protocols, but his hands are frantic, prying at the door. It won't budge…frame twisted from the flip. "Get the jaws! Hurry!"
The team descends…tools whining, shouts overlapping. Dad's there, directing, but his eyes keep flicking to Ryan, worry etched deep. "Steady, Lieutenant. We've got her."
Ryan doesn't hear. He's reaching through the window, fingers finding your neck pulse. Faint, thready, but there. "Come on, baby. Hold on." His voice breaks, tears mixing with rain. They cut the door, extract you carefully, too carefully, every second of agony and you're out, laid on the stretcher, pale as ash, lips blue from the cold.
EMTs swarm, but Ryan's right there, holding your hand, whispering nonsense promises. "You're okay. I've got you. Don't you dare leave me."
You make it…to the hospital, at least. Stabilized, they say. Concussion, hypothermia, broken ribs from the impact. But you don't wake up. Not that night. Not the next.
Ryan haunts the ICU like a ghost, uniform rumpled, eyes bloodshot. He calls off shifts for the first time ever and Dad doesn't fight it, just sits with him in the waiting room, silent company.
"She's strong," Dad says on the second day, handing him coffee he won't drink. "Like you."
Ryan stares at the floor, panic dulled to a hollow ache. "I should've been there. Should've known."
"You couldn't have." Dad's hand on his back, heavy. "But she's here because of you. You got her out."
On the third day, your fingers twitch in his. Eyes flutter open…groggy, confused, but *you*.
"Ryan?" Your voice is a rasp, but it's everything.
He crumples, forehead to your hand, tears finally breaking free. "I'm here. God, I'm here."
You squeeze back, weak but real. "Tornado... car spun... I'm sorry."
"Don't." He lifts his head, eyes fierce through the blur. "Just... don't scare me like that again."
You smile faintly, pain etching lines around your eyes. "Deal."
He kisses your knuckles, holding on like you'll slip away. The panic lingers, a shadow in his bones, but you're awake. Breathing.
Summary: Waiting in the rain outside Station 113 with cold pancakes and warmer intentions, you remind a smoke-tired lieutenant what coming home feels like. In the quiet after chaos, love shows up in borrowed jackets, intertwined fingers, and the promise of rest when the sirens finally fall silent.
A/N: I am currently hyper fixating on Ryan from 9-1-1: Nashville and it's criminal that there isn't a lot of fics on this golden retriever husband material character. And Michael Provost is a fine man.
The rain was coming down in sheets over Nashville, turning Lower Broadway into a blurry watercolor of neon and wet asphalt. You stood under the awning of the little 24-hour diner two blocks from Station 113, clutching a paper bag of takeout that was rapidly losing its warmth. You’d promised the crew you’d bring comfort food after their brutal 14-hour shift—double calls, a multi-vehicle pileup on I-40, and a structure fire that had everyone coughing black for hours.
But really…you were here for one firefighter in particular.
The bay doors rattled open down the street, and there he was: Lieutenant Ryan Hart, still in his turnout pants and navy tee, suspenders hanging loose, hair damp and tousled from the helmet he’d just pulled off. Even exhausted, he moved with that quiet, steady purpose that always made your chest tighten a little.
He spotted you almost immediately.
“You’re soaked,” he said as he jogged over, voice low and rough from smoke and shouting orders all day. Before you could answer, he was shrugging out of his turnout jacket and draping it over your shoulders. It was heavy, warm from his body, and smelled faintly of diesel, cedar soap, and him.
“I’m fine,” you protested, even as you pulled it tighter. “This is for the crew. Pancakes, bacon, those hashbrowns they fight over—”
“They can wait two minutes.” Ryan’s hand found yours, fingers threading through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You didn’t have to come out in this.
“I wanted to.” You tipped your head toward the diner bag. “And I figured you’d forget to eat again if someone didn’t remind you.”
He huffed a small laugh—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made the tiredness in them soften. “You know me too well.”
“Occupational hazard of dating the lieutenant who thinks rules apply to everyone except himself when it comes to self-care.
Ryan’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Guilty.”
A beat of quiet passed between you, just the sound of rain drumming on the awning and distant traffic. Then he stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him despite the chill.
“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me."
You did.
His eyes, hazel flecked with gold, searched your face like he was memorizing it. “I keep thinking…every time we roll out, every time the tones drop…I think about coming home to you. About walking through that door and seeing you on the couch with that terrible reality show you pretend not to like, or in the kitchen burning toast because you got distracted texting me.”
“I do not burn toast,” you said, fighting a smile.
“You do. Charcoal-level. It’s cute.” He leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours. “I think about that more than I think about the fire sometimes. Keeps me steady.”
Your throat tightened. Ryan wasn’t one for big declarations, he showed love in actions: checking your tires when it snowed, leaving his hoodie on your chair when he knew you’d be cold, texting “call me when you’re home safe” even when he was the one running into danger.
But every once in a while, when the adrenaline faded and the world got quiet, the words slipped out.
“I love you,” he said simply, like it was the easiest truth he knew. “And I’m really damn glad you’re here waiting.”
You rose on your toes and kissed him, soft, slow, tasting rain and relief and the faint bitterness of smoke that still clung to his lips. He kissed you back like he was anchoring himself, one hand sliding to the small of your back, the other cradling your jaw.
When you finally pulled apart, he didn’t let go.
“C’mon,” he said, voice husky. “Let’s get this food inside before the vultures descend. Then I’m taking you home, running you a hot shower, and we’re sleeping until noon tomorrow. No alarms. No calls. Just us.”
“Lieutenant Hart breaking protocol?” you teased.
“For you?” He pressed one more kiss to your temple, lingering there. “Every damn time.”
You walked back toward the station hand-in-hand, his jacket still around your shoulders, the bag of pancakes swinging between you. The rain kept falling, the city kept moving, but right then, for just a little while, everything felt perfectly still.
On a snowy Christmas Eve in Chicago, Jay Halstead is tangled in more than just Christmas lights. When you step in to help, a quiet moment sparks between the two of you, one that leads to hot chocolate, laughter, and the promise of a night spent together. A cozy, romantic story of snow, warmth, and unexpected love in the 21st District.
The first real snowfall of December came in quiet, steady waves—thick flakes drifting lazily down and settling across the city like a soft blanket. Chicago had a talent for making even winter look angry, but tonight? Tonight it looked almost gentle.
Inside the 21st District, the contrast was sharp.
Phones rang. Radios crackled. Someone somewhere slammed a file cabinet.
And Jay Halstead was swearing under his breath at a hopelessly tangled string of Christmas lights.
You paused in the doorway of the bullpen, arms full of coffees and a small bag of cookies you impulsively bought on the way in. Jay stood near the break table, shoulders tense, one end of the lights looped around his wrist like they were handcuffs he'd willingly put on.
“You look like you’re losing a fight you started,” you said.
Jay looked up, relief flickering through those bright green eyes. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re definitely laughing.”
His tone was accusing, but he was already smiling, jaw relaxing in that familiar way that always made your stomach flip.
You set the coffee tray down on the nearest desk and walked over. “Why are you even doing this? We all agreed I’d handle decorations.”
“Yeah, but you were with Voight half the morning, and the place looked depressing.” He lifted the lights helplessly. “I was trying to be helpful.”
“And festive?”
“And festive,” he conceded.
You shook your head, stepping close enough to smell the faint mix of aftershave and winter air still clinging to his sweater. “Halstead, think about what you’re good at. Tactical entries. Interrogations. Running after suspects. Not… this.”
He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You doubt my Christmas abilities.”
“You’re wearing a gray sweater.”
“It’s a festive gray sweater.”
You tapped the tiny snowflake embroidered on the cuff. “This is barely festive.”
“That hurts.”
You laughed, but the moment softened as your fingers brushed his hand while untangling the mess of lights. He stilled, just a small pause, but you felt it.
Jay Halstead didn’t freeze often.
But sometimes he did around you.
“You get these from a crime scene?” you asked, teasing lightly, trying to diffuse the warmth building under your skin.
He snorted. “No, but if they don’t cooperate, I’ll turn them into one.”
“Stop making threats at Christmas lights.”
“Can’t help it. It’s how I communicate.”
You shook your head again, but the last knot came free, and the lights fell neatly into place.
Jay’s expression brightened instantly, like you’d just solved a homicide in thirty seconds. “Look at that. You’re magic.”
You plugged them in, and the warm golden glow flickered to life, casting soft halos across the dim bullpen.
For a moment, the chaos of the district faded. It was just the two of you in a warm circle of light.
Jay watched the lights for a beat before turning his gaze on you, gentle, quiet, and too sincere for the joke he tried to make.
“Guess some of us just need more help than others.”
You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “Lucky for you, I’m available for hire.”
“Oh yeah?” Jay’s voice dropped, softer. “What’s your rate?”
“Depends. Do you pay in coffee or sarcasm?”
“Both.” His lips quirked. “Generously.”
Your heart tugged painfully, sweet, warm, inevitable. Jay Halstead was trouble in every version of the word.
The bullpen door opened somewhere behind you, and the spell broke. But Jay didn’t step back. He stayed close, his shoulder brushing yours as he reached for one of the coffees you brought.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
“Didn’t bring them for you,” you lied.
He chuckled, low and close. “Sure you didn’t.”
You were saved from answering by the ringing of his desk phone. Jay sighed dramatically. “Duty calls.”
But he paused before picking it up.
“You got plans tonight?” he asked suddenly, almost like the question slipped out before he could stop it.
You blinked. “What kind of plans?”
He shrugged, trying to look casual but failing. “Dinner? Hang out? It’s Christmas Eve, and Will’s working late. My place is quiet. Thought maybe we could… I don’t know.” His eyes softened. “Spend it together.”
Your chest tightened.
Jay Halstead did not ask lightly.
“Are you asking me out?” you teased, even though your voice wasn’t as steady as you hoped.
“Maybe.” His fingers drummed nervously on the desk, a dead giveaway. “If you want that.”
You swallowed. “I… yeah. I want that.”
His face lit with a smile he didn’t try to hide. “Good.”
The phone rang again, louder this time.
Jay grimaced and grabbed it. “Halstead.”
You slipped back toward your desk as he spoke, but he kept glancing at you, little flickers, like he needed to make sure you were still there.
The call was brief. When he hung up, he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
“Come on,” he said, tossing a look over his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here before someone realizes we’re trying to leave.”
You laughed, grabbing your bag. “Lead the way, Detective.
He held the bullpen door open for you, stepping out into the hallway as the faint glow of the Christmas lights cast a warm halo behind him.
Outside, the snowfall had thickened, soft flakes catching in your hair and melting on his shoulders. Jay reached out, brushing one gently from your cheek with the back of his fingers.
His touch lingered.
“You cold?” he asked softly.
“Not really.”
“Good.” His voice grew quieter, more intimate. “I want you warm tonight.”
Your breath hitched.
Jay smiled like he knew exactly what he’d just done.
“Come on,” he murmured. “I promised award-winning hot chocolate.”
“You really think it’s award-winning?”
“I know it is. You’ll see.” He reached for your hand—slowly, deliberately. “Ready?”
You laced your fingers with his.
“Yeah,” you whispered.
And walking through the quiet snowfall with Jay Halstead’s hand wrapped around yours, the world finally felt still again, simple, soft, and safe in a way you didn’t know you needed.
After your power goes out, Steve invites you to hangout at the video store for Christmas Eve.
Snow drifted lazily outside the wide windows of Family Video, gathering like powdered sugar on the sidewalks, the parking lot lamps glowing hazily through the flurries. Inside, the world was warmer — the soft hum of the heating unit, the faint buzz of the store’s neon sign, the musty-sweet smell of old tapes mixing with the sharper scent of pine from the little fake Christmas tree you and Steve were trying to decorate.
Trying was the key word.
“Okay, final verdict,” Steve said, planting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the disaster of green plastic and mismatched ornaments. “It’s either charmingly wonky… or a fire hazard.”
You barked a laugh, crossing your arms as you eyed the tree. “You’re the one who decided it needed ‘more personality.’”
“It did!” he protested, gesturing wildly. “It had no soul. Now it has… I don’t know, quirks.”
“It looks like it lost a fight.”
Steve pointed at you. “That’s personality.”
You shook your head, but the grin stretching across your face wouldn’t fade. The truth was, you hadn’t meant to spend Christmas Eve in a video store decorated by a man with overinflated confidence in his interior-design skills. You hadn’t meant to spend it with anyone at all.
But when the power went out in your place and the heater died with it, Steve reacted like you’d told him you were living on the brink of death.
“Come to the store,” he’d said immediately. “It’s warm, it’s safe, and we have… uh…” He’d looked around and grabbed the first thing within reach. “Candy canes.”
“You stole that from the free bowl at the bank,” you’d pointed out.
“I rescued them,” he corrected.
And then he’d brought you hot chocolate. Real hot chocolate — the kind you whisk on a stove. You teased him for being fancy, but he shrugged and said, almost shyly, “You deserve the good stuff.”
It hadn’t left your head since.
Now, the two of you stood side by side staring at the tree like it held the meaning of life.
“We need something for the top,” you said, kneeling near the open box of half-tangled decorations. “Something that doesn’t look like it crawled out of the Upside Down.”
Steve let out a laugh as he crouched beside you, close enough that your knees brushed. “I might have something.”
“Oh? What, your natural charm?”
“Well, yeah,” he said, nudging you with his shoulder, “but I’m trying to save some for 1986.”
You snorted. “Big plans?”
“Maybe.” He tilted his head toward you, eyes warm. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“You,” he said simply before going back to rummaging around in his jacket pocket like he hadn’t just said something that set your entire stomach fluttering.
He pulled out a crinkled napkin, worn soft at the edges, folded with care. When he opened it, your breath caught.
A tiny gold ornament. A metal snowflake, about the size of your palm. Simple. Not elegant. Not expensive. But well-loved.
“This was on my tree growing up,” he said, rubbing his thumb along the edge. “It’s one of the only ones I didn’t break as a kid. Or, uh… teenager.”
He laughed, but his voice softened at the end. Almost tentative.
“Steve… are you sure you want to use that here?” you asked. “You don’t have to put something important on the world’s worst Christmas tree.”
“It’s not the worst.”
“Steve."
“Fine.” He sighed dramatically. “It’s top five at least.” Then he met your eyes. “But I want to use it. For you.”
The words hit you harder than they should have. You found yourself swallowing around the warmth blooming in your chest.
You took the ornament carefully from him, handling it like it was something sacred. “Let’s do it.”
You stood on your toes to reach the top, and Steve immediately steadied the tree with both hands — not doing a great job of balancing it, but doing it earnestly, which made you smile.
The little snowflake fit perfectly at the top, like it had been waiting for this odd, crooked tree all along.
When you stepped back, expecting him to admire the result, you found him looking at you instead.
“What?” you asked, heat creeping up your neck.
“Nothing.” His smile softened. “Just… kind of wish every Christmas Eve looked like this.”
“Stuck in a video store with me?”
“Hey.” He bumped your hip with his. “There are worse fates.”
“Oh really? Name one.”
“Okay.” He held up a finger. “Not being stuck in a video store with you.”
The room seemed to go still. Not heavy, just warm, full, like it was holding its breath the same way you were.
Soft snow tapped at the windows. The lights glowed gently on the mismatched decorations. Steve stood there with his hair falling in soft waves, his cheeks warm from the heater, his eyes, brown and sweet and honest, focused entirely on you.
“Steve…” you said lightly, almost warningly, though you weren’t sure what you were warning him of.
He stepped closer anyway. Not too close. Just enough.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, voice low. “I just… having you here tonight? It feels right.”
The flutter in your chest turned into a slow, steady ache. Not painful, just something you suddenly couldn’t imagine losing.
Then, almost before you realized you were moving, your fingers brushed his — small, tentative — and he immediately, instinctively, laced his through yours.
His hand was warm. Steady. Like he’d been wanting to hold yours for months.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “It feels right.”
He exhaled a laugh, soft and relieved. “Good.”
You stood there like that for a moment, hand in hand, faces close, the soft glow of the tacky Christmas tree illuminating everything with a warm shimmer.
Then Steve dipped his head slightly, his forehead almost touching yours.
“Can I…?” he murmured.
You nodded before he’d finished the question.
He kissed you gently. Carefully. Like he’d spent days, maybe months, thinking about how it would feel and didn’t want to mess it up. His hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so tenderly it made your heart lurch.
You leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his cardigan, pulling him closer with a quiet urgency you didn’t bother hiding.
His other hand steadied at your waist, not pushing, not claiming, just holding you like you were something worth being careful with.
When you finally pulled back, your noses brushed, breaths mingling in warm little clouds.
“Merry Christmas,” he whispered.
Your smile spread before you could stop it. You tugged lightly on his sweater, pulling him even closer. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”
He rested his forehead against yours, eyes drifting shut. “I know this probably isn’t how you planned to spend the night.”
“Well,” you said, threading your fingers back through his, “the plan was to be freezing in a dark apartment, so… I’m pretty happy with the upgrade.”
“Good,” he said, squeezing your hand. “’Cause I was gonna feel really guilty if you hated it. Even made hot chocolate like a responsible adult.”
“And you didn’t burn it,” you teased.
“Rude,” he gasped. “I was being thoughtful.”
“I know.” You softened, thumb brushing the back of his hand. “I know.”
He looked at you like you’d said something important. Something he didn’t expect to hear.
“Hey,” you added quietly, “thank you. For tonight. Really."
He shrugged, but his ears were going pink. “It’s nothing. I mean… it’s you. You don’t have to thank me for wanting to be around you.”
Your breath caught at the simple honesty of that.
Then the heater clunked loudly like a dying robot, making both of you jump. Steve groaned.
“That thing is going to explode one day,” he muttered. “We’re gonna be in the paper as ‘Local Idiots Vaporized by Faulty Heater.’”
“Oh no,” you said dramatically. “A tragic end."
He grinned. “At least we’ll go together.”
“That’s the spirit,” you deadpanned.
He nudged you again, softer this time, like he couldn’t help touching you now that the barrier had finally cracked open.
“Come on,” he said suddenly. “There’s something else.”
He tugged you gently toward the counter and reached underneath. When he popped back up, he held a small cardboard box with sloppy red marker on the lid.
To: You
From: Steve
Do NOT open early.
You stared at it. “Did you seriously write that?”
“I needed to make sure you didn’t peek,” he said defensively.
“I wasn’t here to peek!”
He blinked. “Okay, but hypothetically—”
“Oh my god,” you groaned, laughing.
He shoved the box toward you. “Just open it.”
You untied the ribbon, crooked, but endearing, and lifted the lid.
Inside was a … mixtape.
The label was written in Steve’s messy scrawl:
Stuff That Makes Me Think of You (Don’t Make Fun of the Title)
Your throat tightened.
“You made a mixtape?” you whispered.
“I did.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Some of the songs are classics, some are… not… but they all felt like things you’d like. Or things I wanted you to hear.”
You lifted it carefully, like it was something that might break. “Steve, this is…"
“Is it dumb?” he asked quickly.
“No,” you said immediately. “It’s perfect.”
He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours.
“Well good,” he said, the edges of his mouth tipping up. “Because there’s a side B and I already committed emotionally.”
You laughed, then softened again as your eyes drifted from the tape to him, earnest, awkward, hopeful, warm.
“You know,” you said quietly, “I’m really glad my heater broke.”
“Me too.”
He reached for your hand again , slower this time, reverent almost, and when you gave it to him, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into the warmest hug you’d ever felt.
Snow continued falling softly outside. The lights on the crooked tree blinked unevenly. The store smelled like cocoa and pine and something faintly like hope.
And Steve held you like he didn’t want the night to end.
Summary: Rhysand takes you to Velaris’s annual enchanted haunted house, where illusions of ghosts, ghouls, and creeping shadows blur the line between spooky and whimsical. Between teasing banter, nervous laughter, and a final candlelit surprise, you realize the only thing scarier than the house is how deeply you’ve fallen for him.
Velaris gleamed beneath an autumn moon, the Sidra lined with flickering lanterns carved into glowing pumpkins. Children darted through the streets in masks and painted faces, shrieking with delight as friendly spirits—conjured illusions, courtesy of the Night Court’s most talented—swooped low and dissolved into glittering smoke.
“Remind me why I agreed to this again?” you muttered, tugging your cloak tighter as the crowd swelled near the grand square.
Rhysand, standing at your side with the insufferable calm of a High Lord who knew he was unfairly gorgeous even in the dim light, smirked. “Because, darling, you can’t resist me. And because Velaris’s haunted house only opens once a year. It would be a crime to miss it.”
You arched a brow. “A crime punishable by what, exactly?”
He leaned down, his breath brushing your ear. “I can think of several forms of punishment that would fit the bill.”
Heat flushed your cheeks. Typical Rhysand.
The haunted house loomed ahead—an enchanted illusion built into one of the old estates near the river. Its ivy-covered walls seemed to breathe, the windows glowing with pale, eerie light. Even the stone gargoyles perched along the roof moved subtly, their wings stretching before folding tight again. A line had formed, laughter and nervous anticipation bubbling among the crowd.
Rhys offered his arm, all mock formality. “Shall we, my lady?”
Rolling your eyes but unable to suppress your grin, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow. “Lead on, terror of Prythian.”
Inside, the air was cooler, scented faintly of smoke and autumn spice. Shadows pooled thickly in the corners, and a slow creak echoed through the hall as if the house itself were waking.
A ghostly butler—clearly an illusion, though perfectly convincing—bowed low and gestured for you to enter the first corridor. “Welcome, brave souls,” the butler intoned, his translucent hand sweeping toward the darkness ahead. “Beware what lurks within.”
Rhys grinned at you, violet eyes glinting. “Sounds like a Tuesday at the Hewn City.”
You elbowed him, but laughter escaped you anyway.
The first corridor stretched impossibly long, lined with portraits that seemed to watch as you passed. Some eyes followed; others blinked or shifted expressions when you weren’t looking directly at them. A hush settled over the group moving ahead of you—until a sharp crack split the silence and one of the paintings shrieked, its face twisting into a grotesque grin.
You jumped, clutching Rhys’s arm.
“Oh, don’t worry, darling,” Rhys drawled, utterly unbothered. “If anything tries to kill us, I’ll throw you at it and make my escape.”
You gaped at him. “You would not.”
His answering smirk was wicked. “Wouldn’t I?”
Before you could retort, the floor shifted beneath your feet, tilting just enough to make you stumble forward. Rhys’s hand shot out, steadying you against his chest. The heat of him, the steady thump of his heart, made it difficult to focus.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered, trying—and failing—to ignore the way he held you a beat too long before letting go.
“Of course I am. What’s the point of a haunted house if not to have you cling to me for protection?”
The next chamber was darker, a graveyard conjured indoors. Fog curled low around your boots, and skeletal hands occasionally pushed up from the soil before crumbling to dust. A mournful violin played somewhere unseen.
You stiffened when a shadow darted across the fog, low and fast. “Did you see—”
A ghoul leapt from behind a gravestone, shrieking. You yelped—and Rhys immediately burst into laughter.
“Coward,” you hissed, smacking his arm.
“Oh, I’ll have you know I was merely appreciating the artistry,” he said between chuckles. “Your scream could wake the dead, though. Quite impressive.”
“Keep it up, High Lord, and I’ll leave you here for the skeletons.”
He only grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
The deeper you went, the more elaborate the illusions became. A library where books flew off the shelves and recited poetry in ghostly whispers. A dining hall where skeletal figures raised glasses of glowing wine in eerie unison. A mirror maze that reflected not your faces, but monstrous versions with hollow eyes and sharp teeth.
Through it all, Rhys remained unflappable, offering dry commentary that made you laugh even when your heart thumped too fast.
But the last room—the finale—was different.
You stepped into a chamber cloaked in near-total darkness. The door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the muffled sounds of the crowd outside. Silence pressed heavy.
“Rhys?” you whispered.
“I’m here.” His hand found yours, fingers intertwining with deliberate care. His voice was calm, but the shadows curled tighter around him as if responding instinctively.
A low moan rose from the darkness, followed by a flicker of movement—something crawling along the ceiling. Dozens of glowing eyes blinked open above you.
You froze. “Please tell me those are illusions.”
Rhys squeezed your hand. “Almost certainly.”
“Almost?”
Before he could answer, the creatures dropped—only to vanish into smoke inches before hitting the floor. The room lit suddenly with hundreds of candles, revealing walls draped in velvet, pumpkins carved with intricate designs, and garlands of autumn leaves. At the center stood a table laden with sweets, spiced cider, and glowing faelights.
The shift was so abrupt, you laughed in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”
Rhys’s grin was pure mischief. “And that, darling, is the Night Court’s haunted house. Terrifying, isn’t it?”
You smacked his chest, though warmth bloomed in your stomach. “You’re insufferable.”
“Ah, but you love me for it.”
He tugged you closer, the flickering candlelight painting gold across his cheekbones. His voice dropped, softer, more intimate. “Happy Halloween, sweetheart.”
And then he kissed you—slow, deep, sweet as the spiced cider waiting nearby. The haunted house faded into nothing, because the only thing you could feel was him.
Summary: Eris begrudgingly follows you to a pumpkin patch, mocking the tradition until he secretly starts enjoying himself. Together they carve a glowing pumpkin, and in the soft autumn light, Eris admits—without quite saying it—that he doesn’t hate sharing these moments with them.
The Autumn Court always looked its most beautiful in October.
Even without the crisp human traditions you’d grown up hearing about—harvest fairs, bonfires, pumpkin patches—the natural turning of the leaves here was enough to steal your breath. The forests around the Vanserra estate burned brighter than fire itself, all scarlet and amber, a sea of shifting gold that caught the light when the sun dipped low.
And Eris, of course, thought it was all beneath him.
“You’re serious about this,” he drawled, when you’d announced your plan that morning. He leaned against the carved doorway of your shared chambers, resplendent in Autumn Court finery that probably cost more than the entire pumpkin harvest combined.
“Dead serious.” You tugged on your boots, determination flashing in your eyes. “You promised me a day off. No court, no politics, no scheming.”
“I distinctly recall promising you my presence,” he said, voice dry as kindling. “Which is generous enough.”
“You’re coming with me,” you replied firmly, grabbing his wrist before he could vanish in a swirl of flame. “To the pumpkin patch.”
His brows rose, sharp and golden like the crown he’d one day wear. “Pumpkin patch.”
“Yes.” You grinned. “You’ll love it.”
To your surprise, he didn’t argue further. He let you tug him down the forest path, his long stride unhurried but indulgent. Autumn air curled cool against your skin, crisp and earthy with fallen leaves. You breathed it in like a tonic, excitement bubbling in your chest.
The pumpkin patch lay on the edge of the estate grounds, technically part of the royal holdings but far enough removed that it felt like a secret escape. Rows upon rows of orange gourds sprawled across the clearing, their vines tangling through rich, dark soil. Faelights hung suspended from bare-limbed trees, glowing faintly against the shadow of the forest beyond.
You clapped your hands together in delight. “Perfect!”
Eris looked around as if he’d just been asked to muck a stable. “This,” he said flatly, “is dirt.”
“This is tradition,” you corrected, already stepping between the rows. “Humans celebrate harvest like this. They pick pumpkins, carve them, roast seeds—sometimes they even compete to see who can carry the biggest one.”
“Do I strike you as the competing sort?” he muttered, though his eyes followed you carefully, as though the earth itself might betray you.
“You strike me as the sort who pretends not to enjoy something, only to secretly enjoy it a lot.”
That earned you a sharp glance. “Careful, darling. That sort of insight is dangerous.”
You only laughed and bent to inspect a pumpkin, running your hand over the cool, ridged surface. It was round, fat, the perfect shade of orange. You tapped it with your knuckles, listening for the hollow sound. “This one’s good.”
Eris arched a brow. “You’re going to drag that back to the manor?”
“Of course. We’ll carve it together.”
“Carve it?” His lips curled, disdain and amusement mingling.
“With a face,” you explained patiently. “Or—or a pattern. Something festive.”
He stared at you as if you’d suggested dancing naked in front of the Court of Night. Which, to be fair, he might actually find less offensive.
“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this.” He crouched suddenly, graceful even in the dirt, and with one hand plucked up a pumpkin nearly twice the size of the one you’d chosen. His long fingers spanned its surface easily, lifting it as though it weighed nothing. “There. The biggest one. Surely I win.”
“That’s not how this works,” you protested, though laughter laced your voice. “It’s not a contest.”
“It is now.” A faint smirk curved his mouth, sly and dangerous—but softer than you were used to. He deposited the massive pumpkin at your feet like an offering.
You tried, valiantly, to lift it. It barely budged. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet irresistible.” His flame-colored hair caught the light, haloing him in molten copper. “Come now. You said carving, didn’t you? Lead the way.”
Back at the manor, the servants scattered at the sight of Eris lugging an enormous pumpkin through the halls. He ignored their gawking, only pausing once you’d reached the smaller sitting room you favored—warm and wood-paneled, with windows opening out toward the blazing autumn woods.
He set the pumpkin down with a dull thud. “Now what?”
“Now,” you said, dragging out a small set of carving tools you’d borrowed from the kitchens, “we get creative.”
“You intend to let me near sharp blades when I’m already irritated?” His tone was wicked, but his eyes glittered with private mirth.
“I trust you,” you said simply.
That seemed to catch him off guard. His mouth closed with a faint snap, as if he’d been prepared for teasing but not for earnestness. Then, with a shake of his head, he pulled a knife from the set. “Fine. Show me.”
The two of you set to work. First came cutting a lid—Eris insisted on doing this part himself, his precision unnervingly perfect as the blade sliced through thick rind. He lifted the cap cleanly, revealing the tangle of pulp and seeds within.
“Disgusting,” he muttered.
“It’s the best part.” You plunged your hands inside, scooping out strings of orange and pale seeds. Warm slime coated your fingers. “You can roast these.”
Eris recoiled. “You’re filthy.”
“You’re spoiled.” You flicked a stray bit of pumpkin at him. It landed on his sleeve.
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’ll regret that.”
Before you could retreat, a small flame sparked at his fingertips—controlled, harmless, but enough to make the pumpkin guts on your hands warm instantly. You yelped, laughing, and he smirked triumphantly.
“You’re the worst,” you said, wiping your hands on a cloth.
“And yet,” he murmured, leaning closer, “you’re smiling.”
The carving turned into a surprisingly companionable task. You sketched a simple design—two crescent moons, a scattering of stars—and Eris executed it with deft, steady hands. His control was flawless, each cut clean, as though he’d been born for delicate work.
When you finally set a faelight inside and replaced the lid, the pumpkin glowed softly, casting golden shapes across the room.
You leaned back against the couch, admiring it. “Beautiful.”
“Acceptable,” he corrected, though his gaze lingered on your face more than the pumpkin.
Warmth filled your chest. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
He hummed noncommittally, but when you nestled against his side, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his arm curved around your shoulders, drawing you closer.
For a while, you sat like that, watching the flickering glow dance against the walls. The pumpkin smelled faintly sweet, the room warm with both faelight and Eris’s natural heat. Outside, leaves whispered in the autumn wind.
Finally, Eris spoke, his voice low. “You’re the only one who could drag me into something like this.”
You tilted your head toward him. “And you don’t hate it.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, “No. I don’t.”
Your heart swelled, the pumpkin’s glow reflecting in his amber eyes. And though Eris Vanserra would never admit it outright, you knew this would become its own tradition—year after year, pumpkin after pumpkin.
Summary: On All Hallows’ Eve in an Illyrian village, you teach Cassian how to enjoy mortal-inspired traditions—pumpkin carving, spiced cider, and dancing beneath lantern light. What begins as playful teasing turns into warmth and tenderness, as Cassian discovers that celebrating with you is a new tradition worth keeping.
The Illyrian wind always had a bite to it, but tonight it smelled of woodsmoke, roasted chestnuts, and something spiced and sweet. Cassian landed with a solid thump, his wings folding as he glanced around the little mountain village. Children darted between glowing lanterns, their laughter carrying into the night.
You landed beside him, your boots crunching on frosted grass. “Stop scowling,” you said, nudging him with your elbow. “You’re supposed to enjoy this.”
Cassian gave a half-smirk. “I’m not scowling. I’m… assessing.”
“Assessing pumpkins?” You gestured to the crooked row of jack-o-lanterns. “What exactly are you worried about—one of them flying at you?”
“They’ve got faces.” His hazel eyes narrowed at a particularly toothy grin. “Creepy little things.”
You laughed and tugged his hand. “Come on, General. Let me teach you how to celebrate properly.”
The first stop was the food stalls, where steam curled from mugs of cider and trays of honey cakes. Cassian eyed the table like it was a war strategy map.
“Which one do I conquer first?”
“Try the cider.” You handed him a warm cup.
One sip and his broad shoulders relaxed, his lips curling into a low hum of approval. “Oh, that’s dangerous.” He finished it in three gulps, then grinned at you. “Another.”
“You’re worse than the kids,” you muttered, though you got him another anyway. His grin only widened.
Next, you led him to the pumpkin carving table. Cassian crossed his arms. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought beasts twice my size, but this—” he pointed at the round orange gourd “—this feels beneath me.”
“Terrified?” You arched a brow.
He scoffed, grabbed the carving knife, and jabbed it into the pumpkin with too much force. Orange guts splattered across his chestplate.
You burst out laughing. “Behold, the mighty slayer of gourds!”
Cassian turned his head slowly, eyes gleaming with mock threat. “Careful, or I’ll smear this all over your face.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
A beat. Then his grin turned wicked, and you just managed to dodge as he lunged with a fistful of pumpkin guts. Children nearby squealed in delight, joining in and pelting him with seeds until Cassian stood there, dripping and grinning like a mischievous warlord.
By the time you both sat down to actually carve, your pumpkin had neat triangular eyes and a sweet little grin. His… looked like it had been through battle. He lit it proudly anyway.
“Fiercest pumpkin in the patch,” he declared.
“It looks like you,” you teased.
“Good. Scary but irresistible.” He slung an arm around your shoulders, and the warmth of him bled through your cloak.
Later, music filled the square—lively fiddles, stomping drums, laughter ringing with it. Couples and children twirled beneath lantern strings. Cassian raised a brow at you as if daring you.
You rolled your eyes. “You can’t possibly want to dance.”
“Why not?” His grin softened, playful. “Unless you’re scared I’ll step on your toes.”
“Or your wings will knock someone over.”
Cassian only extended his hand, palm open, patient.
Sighing, you took it.
His grip was warm and steady, pulling you into the circle of his arms as the music swelled. He moved with surprising grace, his strength guiding you easily through each step. His laughter rumbled in his chest every time you nearly tripped, though he caught you without fail.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you murmured.
“Of course I am.” His hazel eyes gleamed in the lantern light, fixed only on you. “I’m dancing with the prettiest person here.”
Heat rose to your cheeks, but before you could respond, he twirled you, wings brushing the air, laughter spilling from both of you. The villagers cheered, and Cassian bowed exaggeratedly when the music ended, earning applause from children who now thought him the evening’s star.
When the night wound down, you found yourselves outside the village again, the mountains quiet under a sky full of stars. A row of glowing pumpkins flickered at your backs.
Cassian tugged you close beneath his wing, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. “Not bad,” he murmured. “Better than drills.”
You tilted your face up at him, smiling. “Told you.”
His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin as his lips found yours—slow, unhurried, tasting faintly of spiced cider. Warmth spread through you, deeper than any fire.
When he pulled back, his grin was tender, crooked. “Think this should be a new tradition. You, me, pumpkin guts, and terrible dancing.”
“Terrible?” you echoed, laughing softly.
“Fine,” he amended, kissing you again. “Perfect.”
And with his wings wrapped around you, the glow of lanterns at your backs, the night felt like nothing could touch you.
