The paramedics take over Thessa and Darius’s care, and I finally allow myself a moment to breathe. The rescue went exactly as it should have. No mistakes, no hesitation, no moments where myinexperience showed. For the first time since joining this crew, I feel like I truly belong.
Kam and I immediately turn around and grab a hose as the chief directs us to a hot spot.
Several hours later we’re winding the hose back on the truck.
“Ironwood!” Chief Brokka approaches, his expression approving. “Good work in there. Clean technique, solid communication with me and the victims. Got them both to safety. That’s exactly the kind of work I want to see from my crew.”
The praise hits differently than usual, partly because I know Jordan heard it. I’ve proven myself not just to my Chief, but to the woman whose opinion somehow matters more than anyone else’s.
“Thank you, sir.”
“It was your day off, so thanks for helping, but we’ll take it from here. The floors have been cleared, no casualties, and the fire is out,” Brokka says, then glances toward the cordon with obvious amusement. “Looks like you’ve got other priorities, anyway. We browbeat you into the speed dating thing, so we might as well let you reap the rewards.”
As the scene winds down and equipment gets packed away, I become acutely aware of how I must look—soot-streaked, sweat-dampened, the acrid tang of smoke clinging to my gear and hair. Most humans would recoil, but Jordan doesn’t.
When I approach, she says nothing at first, just steps into my arms, pressing close as if every mark of fire only draws her nearer.
“You were incredible. I heard every word through the Chief’s radio,” she whispers against my neck, her fingers knotting in my jacket. “Absolutely incredible.”
“Just doing my job,” I say, but her faith in me makes my chest tight with pride.
“No.” She pulls back to look at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears and something that looks remarkably like arousal. “That wasn’t just a job. That was heroism. And I got to watch you be exactly who you’re meant to be.”
The way she looks at me—hungry, reverent—hits harder than any praise I’ve ever taken from my crew. Heat rolls through me, sharp and urgent.
I tug off my gloves and helmet, shaking out sweat-damp hair, and catch her gaze lingering before it snaps back to mine.
“You shouldn’t be sexy like this,” she says softly, cheeks flushing. “But God, Forge, watching you carry both of them out…” Her voice falters, and she shakes her head, like words can’t keep up with what she feels.
My blood spikes at her words, every protective instinct flaring hot. “I should head back to the station, get this gear cleaned up and checked.”
“Of course. You must be exhausted after all that.”
I start to agree, then remember. “Actually, the showers are down for maintenance this week. I’ll have to head home to clean up properly.” I gesture to my soot-covered gear. “Not exactly fit for public consumption.”
She looks almost shy as she asks, “Would you mind if I came with you? I’m not ready for this day to end, and I’d love to see where you live. Maybe you could show me some of your wood projects?” She pauses, and for the first time, I see a blush on her cheeks as she slowly adds, “Maybe more.”
The request slams into me, my pulse spiking as I picture her in my space—on my couch, in my world. “You really want to… see my apartment?”
“I want to see your world,” she says simply. “Where you create all those beautiful things. Where you became the man I just saw out there. The male who carried two people through smoke and still looks at me like I matter.”
Something warm settles in my chest. “I’d like that. Let me just drop this gear at the truck, Kam can take it back to the station.”
“I’ll drive you to your place?”
“Yes. It isn’t far from here.” I pause, studying her face. “Fair warning—it’s not fancy.”
“I don’t care about fancy. I care about getting to know the man who makes me feel like today isn’t nearly finished yet.”
Chapter Eight
Jordan
Forge’s apartment building is nothing like I expected. From the outside, it looks like any other converted warehouse in the Zone—red brick, industrial windows, the kind of place developers would call “loft living” if it were in a trendier neighborhood. But as we climb the stairs to the third floor, I catch glimpses through open doorways of families preparing dinner, children playing, the ordinary sounds of people living their lives.
The stairwell carries the mingled signs of different lives—the cumin of cooking, harsh soap, baking bread—the warm smell of home. Threaded through it all is something distinctly Forge: wood shavings and clean male musk, a scent that makes something flutter low in my belly.
“It’s not much,” Forge says as he unlocks his door, his tone threaded with hesitation. “But it’s home.”
