Page 1 of Falling for the Single Dad Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #1)

The morning light spills through yellow curtains, casting a warm glow across the empty desks. I smooth the front of my navy dress and take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of crayons, glue, and fresh bulletin board paper. My classroom.

I adjust a crooked name tag on the nearest desk and step back to survey my work. Alphabet charts with colorful animals. A reading corner piled with cushions. Cubbies labeled with each child's name.

Not so different from my classroom in Chicago, really, except everything here feels more... deliberate. In a school this size, in a town like Fox Ridge, every choice matters.

My stomach flutters as I straighten a stack of welcome packets.

Three years of teaching experience hasn't done much to calm the first-day nerves.

And this isn't just any first day—it's my first day in a new town, a new school, with families who've known each other since before their children were born.

I moved to Fox Ridge six weeks ago, drawn by the quiet streets and affordable rent, the chance to start fresh somewhere I could breathe. Chicago had been all noise and hustle, endless commutes on packed trains. Fox Ridge offers space—both the physical kind and the kind I need in my head.

"Good morning, Rebecca! All set for the big day?"

Principal Jenkins appears in my doorway, her silver bob swinging as she pokes her head in.

"Morning, Mrs. Jenkins. As ready as I'll ever be." I manage a smile that feels more genuine than I expected.

"You'll be wonderful. First-day jitters are completely normal." She winks. "And remember, kindergarteners are forgiving. Trip over your own feet, and they'll think it's the funniest thing they've ever seen."

After she leaves, I open my desk drawer and touch the small frame tucked inside.

My parents smile back at me from their vacation in Florida, and I wish, not for the first time, that they lived closer.

Mom would've brought me coffee this morning.

Dad would've called with one of his terrible jokes to make me laugh.

The first bell rings, shattering my thoughts. Voices fill the hallway—high-pitched excitement mixed with parental reassurance. I square my shoulders and move to the doorway, pasting on my brightest smile.

"Good morning! Welcome to kindergarten!"

They arrive in trickles and waves—some bouncing with excitement, others hiding behind parents' legs. I crouch down to eye level for each one, using the techniques that have become second nature over the years.

"I love your unicorn backpack!" "What an awesome t-shirt—are those dinosaurs?" "Your braids are beautiful. Did someone special do those for you?"

Each child responds differently—shy smiles, enthusiastic nods, whispered thank-yous. I guide them to find their desks, helping with backpacks and lunch boxes, maintaining a steady stream of chatter to distract from parents slipping away.

A little girl with glasses carefully arranges three colored pencils beside her name tag. "Ms. Brown? Will we have math today? I like counting."

"We sure will, Emma. We'll count all sorts of things."

A boy with a cowlick that defies gravity tugs my sleeve. "Teacher, I forgot my snack."

"That's okay. I keep extra snacks right here." I point to the cabinet by my desk.

The classroom hums with nervous energy, the children feeding off each other's excitement. I've just helped a boy named Tyler locate his cubby when a different sound cuts through the buzz—a high, thin wail that raises the hairs on my arms.

In the doorway stands a tiny girl with dark pigtails and a pink cardigan, her face crumpling as she clings to a man's leg. Her cries grow louder, more desperate with each passing second.

"D-daddy, no! P-please don't leave me!" Her whole body trembles as she buries her face against his jeans. "I want to go h-home!"

The classroom stills. Several parents exchange glances. A few children stop unpacking, their expressions uncertain, as if deciding whether to join the tears.

I move toward them, careful not to invade their space. The little girl's knuckles have gone white where she grips her father's leg. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears streaming down flushed cheeks.

"Hi there," I say softly, kneeling a comfortable distance away. "I'm Ms. Brown."

One eye peeks open, regarding me warily through wet lashes.

Her father gently touches her head. "This is Mia. She's been a little worried about starting school."

His voice catches me by surprise—deeper than expected, with a gentleness that contrasts with his appearance. I look up briefly, registering broad shoulders and dark stubble, before returning my focus to Mia.

"Starting something new can feel pretty big and scary, can't it?" I keep my voice soft, angling my body so I'm not towering over her.

Mia hiccups, her grip on her father loosening just slightly.

I reach into my cardigan pocket and pull out a small, squishy star—swirled blue and purple, well-worn around the edges. I carry it out of habit, a reminder from my own teaching mentor years ago.

"This is my special star," I explain, holding it in my palm. "When I feel nervous, I like to squeeze it. Sometimes I even whisper my worries to it. Would you like to hold it today?"

Mia hesitates, then reaches out with a trembling hand. Her tiny fingers press into the soft material.

"It's squishy," she whispers, her breathing slowing as she focuses on the sensation.

"It sure is. And you know what else? We're going to read a story later about a bunny's first day of school. Would you like to be my special helper and turn the pages?"

She nods slowly, her tears subsiding to occasional sniffles.

"You can keep that star with you all day," I add. "Whenever you miss your dad, just give it a squeeze, okay?"

Only then do I allow myself to look properly at the man still standing patiently above us. The impact is immediate—not a lightning bolt, nothing so dramatic—but a subtle tug of awareness, like noticing the first cool breeze of autumn.

He is tall, with dark hair cut short and shoulders that fill out his gray t-shirt without trying. But it's his eyes that catch me off-guard—deep brown and tired around the edges, watching his daughter with such focused concern that it makes my chest tighten.

"Thank you," he says simply when he catches me looking. His voice matches his presence—steady but with a rough edge that suggests he doesn't waste words. "She's been having a tough time with the idea of school."

"That's completely normal," I assure him, dragging my attention back to Mia, who now squeezes the star ball rhythmically. "The first day is always the hardest."

I smile at Mia, who's finally relaxed her death grip on her father's jeans. "Would you like to see where your desk is? You get to sit right next to the reading corner."

Mia looks up at her father, waiting.

He crouches down to her level. "I'll be back at three o'clock, princess. Right after work." His voice softens even further. "And Ms. Brown will take good care of you until then."

"Promise?" Mia's voice is small but steadier.

"Promise." He presses a kiss to her forehead.

The tenderness of the gesture catches me off guard. Three years of parent interactions have shown me all types—the helicopter parents, the distracted ones, the overly formal—but something about this quiet exchange feels different. Real.

Mia's hand slips into mine, her other still clutching the star ball. Her father straightens, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"She'll be fine," I say quietly.

He nods once. "Thank you, Ms. Brown."

"Rebecca," I hear myself say. "The parents usually call me Rebecca."

"Rebecca," he repeats, and something about hearing my name in his voice makes my cheeks warm. "I'm Samuel. Samuel Lewis."

He extends his hand, and I shake it briefly, aware of the contrast—my smooth palm against his calloused one. An odd current passes between us, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Nice to meet you, Samuel."

He nods again, gives Mia one more reassuring smile, and turns to leave. I watch him go for a moment too long before pulling my attention back to the classroom—to the twenty-two children who need me focused and present.

"Come on," I tell Mia gently. "Let's find your desk and meet some new friends."

The next two hours pass in a flurry of activity—name games, a tour of the classroom, our first story. I guide the children through morning routines, gently redirecting when needed, praising often. Mia stays quiet but participates, clutching the star during transitions.

By the time we line up for break, the classroom has settled into a kind of organized chaos that feels familiar, comfortable. I've learned half their quirks already—which ones need extra guidance, which are natural leaders, which would rather observe than participate.

"Ms. Brown?" Mia tugs at my hand as we wait by the door. "Will my daddy really come back?"

I crouch down to meet her eyes. "Absolutely. He promised, remember? And until then, you and I and your new friends will have lots of adventures."

She nods, her fingers still wrapped around the blue star.

As I lead the line toward the cafeteria, I push thoughts of Samuel Lewis aside. I am here to teach, to create a safe space for twenty-two children finding their way in the world. Not to get distracted by kind eyes and careful hands.

No matter how they might linger in my mind.