Page 18 of The Grumpy Firefighter

The question hangs in the golden air between us, though we both know the answer has been written in every shared morning coffee, every gentle argument about safety versus creativity, every night falling asleep to the sound of each other's breathing.

"Yes," I say, laughing through tears. "Absolutely yes."

He slides the ring onto my finger with the same careful precision he brings to everything, then rises to pull me into his arms. His kiss tastes of coffee and promises and the future stretching before us.

When we part, I can't resist adding, "Though I hope you know this means our wedding will have at least some whimsy. Maybe floating candles or—"

"Properly secured with fire-retardant materials and adequate clearance from combustibles," he finishes, but he's smiling fully now, that rare and beautiful sight reserved for our private moments.

"We'll figure it out," I say, resting my hand against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath my palm. "We always do."

Through the window, I can see the first maple leaves beginning to fall along Emberstone Avenue, golden and rust-colored against the deepening blue of evening. Lanterns flicker to life along the street, and in the distance, the red brick of the fire station stands solid and reassuring.

"I love you," Paul says simply, his arms still around me. "Even when you drive me crazy with your impractical ideas."

"I love you too," I reply, leaning into his strength. "Especially when you're being grumpy about my impractical ideas."

His laugh rumbles through his chest and into mine, two heartbeats finding their shared rhythm, as autumn light fades to dusk around us, and the bookstore shelters our quiet joy like a story meant to be continued.