Axel
Savannah Brooks is thirty feet away, and I swear I can’t get a full breath into my lungs.
It’s pathetic.
I’ve carried people out of burning buildings with half a second to spare. I’ve crawled through infernos with beams falling around me, holding my breath until my ribs screamed. I’ve handled explosions, drownings, trauma calls—hell, even two separate encounters with a pissed-off mountain lion.
But Savannah walking across the firehouse behind the captain?
Yeah. That knocks me flat.
I keep my distance because it’s the only thing I can do without making a fool of myself. I pretend to check the gear on Engine Nine for the fourth damn time, but my eyes keep dragging toward her like I’m magnetized.
She moves through the space like she belongs here—maybe she always did. Calm. Collected. Eyes taking in every detail.
She used to do that. Even as a kid. Spot everything.
Now? She's sharper than a scalpel. More controlled. More… grown.
God help me.
She glances up mid-tour, and her gaze snags mine across the bay again. It hits like a live wire. Direct. Clear. Sharp enough to strip my breath.
I wrench my attention back to the hose couplings.
“Ramirez.”
I don’t have to turn to know it’s Captain. Or that Savannah is standing next to him.
I steel my voice. “Yes, sir?”
“We’re going over the med cabinets. Brooks’ll need access codes for the ambulance. Show her the panel and run a supply check with her.”
My pulse spikes. “Now?”
Cole gives me a look like I’ve lost my damn mind. “Unless you’ve suddenly forgotten how to do your job.”
Right. “No, sir.”
Savannah steps closer. Too close. The scent of her is the same but not the same—vanilla, something warm, something clean, something that slams me straight back to sixteen and destroys me at the same time.
She doesn’t look nervous.
Of course she doesn’t. She never was the one who froze under pressure.
She folds her arms behind her back, professional and polite, and says, “Lead the way, Ramirez.”
Ramirez.
Not Axel. NotAx.Not the way she used to whisper my name when we snuck out past curfew.
The word hits me like a fist.
“Sure,” I manage, keeping my tone neutral.
I head toward the ambulance bay. I can feel her behind me. Every footstep. Every inhale. Every piece of her that hasn’t belonged to me for ten years.
Inside the ambulance, the lights hum softly. The space is tight, warmer than the bay. She climbs in behind me, and it feels even smaller.
