The door closes behind us, sealing out the howling wind, leaving us in the comparative quiet of the generator's steady hum and the truck's cooling engine.
Two figures rush forward—Joey's parents, faces tight with worry until they see their son climbing down from the truck, wrapped in blankets but smiling with embarrassed relief. I step back, allowing their reunion, providing brief information about their son's condition.
Yes, he's fine. Yes, just cold. No, the car will have to wait until tomorrow.
I'm aware of another presence approaching from the corridor—Denise, moving quickly toward me, her eyes scanning me with undisguised concern. She's carrying a heavy blanket, her expression a complicated mix of relief and something more urgent.
The family moves toward the warmth of the kitchen, following Denise's gentle directions, leaving me alone in the bay. My turnout coat drips melting snow onto the concrete floor. My hands, freed from gloves, feel stiff and painful as circulation returns. I'm colder than I realized, the chill having seeped through layers of protection during those long minutes exposed to the storm.
Denise returns, moving directly to me now that the family is settled. Without a word, she unfolds the blanket, reaching up to drape it around my shoulders. The gesture is simple, practical, necessary—and unbearably intimate.
"You're soaked through," she says, her voice low and tight. "You could have frozen out there."
"You kept me from it," I answer simply.
Her hands remain on the blanket, not quite touching my chest but close enough that I feel the heat of her against the chill that's seeped into my bones.
"Your voice," I continue, the words emerging from some deeper place than conscious thought. "Having you on the radio. It made all the difference."
She looks up at me, eyes searching my face. "Don't do that again," she says, but there's no command in it, only the raw edge of fear. "Not alone."
"I wasn't alone." The truth of it resonates through me. "You were there."
Her hands tighten on the blanket, drawing it closer around me, drawing me closer to her.
I feel the last of my restraint dissolving. The discipline that's defined me, the control I've cultivated—it all gives way to this moment, this woman, this undeniable pull that I've been fighting since I first heard her voice through the dispatch radio.
My cold hand rises to cup her face, my touch gentle despite the tremor of returning circulation. Her skin is warm against my palm, alive with color and heat. I search her eyes, finding permission, welcome, anticipation.
When I lean down to kiss her, it's with the same deliberate care I apply to everything. Just a brush of lips, tentative despite its inevitability.
But then she responds, leaning into me, her hands sliding from the blanket to my chest, and control fractures entirely.
The kiss deepens, transforms, becomes something hungry and honest and unguarded. Her warmth seeps into me, melting the last of my reserve. My arms encircle her, drawing her against me despite the dampness of my clothes, needing her closer, needing the life and heat of her after the cold emptiness of the storm.
We break apart finally, breathless, staring at each other in the dim amber glow of the emergency lights.
Chapter 5 – Denise
Bradley's mouth is still on mine, his hands cradling my face like something precious, when I feel the whole world narrow down to this single point of contact. I taste him, warm despite the chill clinging to his clothes, and something inside me cracks open.
We break apart just enough to breathe, to stare at each other in the amber glow of the emergency lights. His eyes are dark, questioning, certain. My heart hammers against my ribs, and for once, I don't try to steady it.
"This is..." I start, not knowing how to finish.
"Inevitable," he supplies, his voice rough around the edges. His thumb traces the curve of my cheek, sending shivers across my skin that have nothing to do with the cold. "Since I first heard your voice on the radio."
The admission undoes me. The thought that he's been feeling this too, this strange gravity, this pull toward something I've been running from for too long. Connection. Heat. Need.
"We should..." I gesture vaguely toward the corridor, suddenly aware we're standing in the open bay where the family could return, where the crew might arrive any moment.
Bradley nods, understanding immediately. His hand finds mine, fingers threading through mine with quiet certainty.
The blanket lies forgotten on the floor as he leads me away from the bay, down the corridor toward the bunkroom where off-duty firefighters sometimes crash between shifts.
The storm punctuates our steps with thunder, a low rumble that seems to echo the blood rushing in my ears. We don't speak. Words seem redundant now, unnecessary layers between us.The generator's hum follows us, a mechanical heartbeat beneath the rain's steady percussion.
The bunkroom is dim, lit only by a single emergency light casting long shadows across spare beds and lockers. Bradley closes the door behind us, and the click of the latch feels like permission, a boundary between the outside world and whatever is about to happen here.
