I lift her and turn back toward the hallway. That's when I hear it: the ominous crack of structural support giving way. I shield Mrs. Caldwell with my body as debris crashes down, something sharp glancing off my shoulder. Pain flares, but there's no time to assess the damage.
"Bradley!" I call into my radio. "East hallway's compromised. Coming out the back stairs."
Navigating through the burning house is like moving through a nightmare, visibility near zero, heat searing even through protective gear, the constant threat of collapse. Every instinct screams to move faster, but I force myself to maintain control, to keep Mrs. Caldwell secure against my chest.
For a brief, surreal moment, Savannah's face flashes through my mind—her smile, her eyes, the way she looked at me across the bakery table. The image grounds me somehow, a reminder of something worth returning to.
When we finally break through the back door into the winter air, the contrast is shocking, from inferno to ice in seconds. Steam rises from my gear as snow melts against the residual heat. My lungs burn with each breath, a cough building in my chest. Nathan rushes forward with a stretcher as I gently set Mrs.Caldwell down. She clutches my hand, murmuring thank yous through her oxygen mask.
"You're okay now," I tell her, my voice rough from smoke. "You're safe."
As the ambulance loads her, the adrenaline begins to fade, leaving me shaky and suddenly aware of the throbbing in my shoulder. I pull off my mask, gulping fresh air that feels like knives in my smoke-irritated throat. That's when I hear it, my name, called out with such urgency it cuts through everything else.
I turn and see Savannah pushing through the small crowd that's gathered behind the police line. Something shifts inside me at the sight of her—a piece clicking into place that I didn't even realize was missing. I'm filthy, exhausted, probably looking like hell, but when our eyes meet, I can't help the smile that forms despite everything.
Chapter 4 – Savannah
I don't let go of Logan's arm as we walk away from the chaos on Briarwood Road. The fire crew is still working, but Paul insisted Logan get checked out after his coughing fit. Logan refused the ambulance, stubborn man that he is, so here we are—me guiding him back toward the station, my hand wrapped around his bicep like I'm the one keeping him upright when it's clearly the other way around.
"You don't have to walk me back," Logan says, voice still rough from the smoke. "I can make it."
"I know you can," I tell him, but I don't loosen my grip. "I want to."
His turnout coat is heavy, dusted with ash and smelling of fire. His face is streaked with soot except where his mask was, creating a strange reverse raccoon effect that makes his eyes seem unnervingly bright in contrast.
We don't talk much on the walk. The night is quiet except for our boots crunching through fresh snow and Logan's occasional cough. I can feel tension radiating from him.
The firehouse is quiet when we arrive, the garage bay empty with the engines still at the scene. Logan punches in a code at the side entrance, holding the door for me. Inside, the station feels eerily still—half-empty coffee mugs on tables, jackets slung over chairs, a television turned on in the corner.
"Common room's this way," Logan says, leading me down a hallway. "I should get cleaned up."
When he turns back to me, I notice his hands are trembling slightly.
"Are you okay?" I ask, stepping closer.
"Yeah. Just..." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. "Adrenaline crash. Happens after a call like that."
He sinks onto one of the couches, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, head hanging slightly. Without thinking, I move to sit beside him, close enough that our thighs press together. My hand finds its way to the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair, feeling the soft, short strands against my skin.
Logan makes a sound, almost a sigh, and leans into my touch. The weight of his head presses against my palm, warm and heavy.
"Was it bad in there?" I ask softly.
He nods, eyes closing briefly. "For a minute, yeah. Thought the ceiling might come down on us."
My stomach clenches at the matter-of-fact way he says it. "But you got her out."
"We got her out," he corrects, looking at me properly now. His eyes are intensely green in this light, bloodshot from smoke but clear and focused. "It's the job."
My hand is still in his hair, fingertips gently scratching his scalp. I should stop, should pull back to a more appropriate distance, but I can't make myself move away. His skin is warm beneath my touch, and I can feel the tension in his neck gradually easing.
"I didn't think I'd make it out," he says suddenly, voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "And the only thing I cared about was getting back to you."
I search his face, looking for any sign that this is still part of our act, still the fake relationship we've been playing at. But there's nothing performative in his expression, just raw honesty and a vulnerability I never expected to see from him.
My hand slides from his hair to his jaw, palm cupping his cheek. His stubble is rough against my skin, a scratchy friction that sends unexpected heat pooling low in my belly. Beneath my fingers, I feel his pulse, rapid and strong.
"I'm glad you made it back," I whisper.
