Page 18 of The Rookie Firefighter

It's not perfect—the walls aren't uniformly thick, and one side is slightly higher than the other—but it's recognizably a bowl, which is more than I could manage a year ago.

"Look at that," Michelle says, genuine pride in her voice. "You might graduate from kindergarten level after all."

I laugh, letting the wheel slow to a stop. "Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not," she says, and though her tone is still playful, her eyes are sincere. "You're persistent. It's one of the things I love about you."

She reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers leaving a cool, damp trail along my temple. I'm struck by a wave of contentment so profound it almost takes my breath away.

"What?" she asks, noticing my expression.

"Nothing," I say, capturing her clay-covered hand in mine. "Just happy."

She smiles, understanding without needing further explanation.

"Let's finish your masterpiece," she suggests, nodding toward the wheel. "Then we can grab breakfast before you crash from night shift."

I turn back to the clay, focusing on smoothing the rim of my lopsided bowl as Michelle moves around the studio, preparing for her day of work.

This is our life now—her art and my shifts, quiet mornings and shared laughter, clay-smudged kisses and steady hands. I know with absolute certainty that I wouldn't change a single thing about it.