I looked away as the ache in my chest intensified. Some days, I looked at the photo and remembered the good times. Todaywasn't one of those days. The ceiling collapsing earlier was part of the job, but what rattled me was the memory of the burning hallway, Reggie calling for backup, my radio cracking with his voice, then silence. The moment replayed without warning, yanking me back to that night, no matter how many years had passed.
I grabbed the bridge of my nose to push away the headache forming. The pressure helped, a physical sensation to focus on instead of the memories threatening to surface.
Later at home, I dropped my keys in a wooden bowl at the door, a habit ingrained as much as checking my gear before a call. My house was functional, like everything else in my life. It was a place to sleep, eat, and shit between shifts, not really a home. I'd stopped needing that a long time ago.
I moved through my evening on autopilot, taking a shower hot enough to scald away the lingering smoke on my skin, reheating leftovers, eating without really tasting them, and watching sports highlights on TV. Normal shit that was supposed to bring me back to normal after a day veering into territory I didn't want to examine too closely.
Still, my mind kept circling back to the fire, to the moment the ceiling had given way behind us, to the woman, Gisselle, and the way she looked at me.
"Fuck this," I muttered, clicking off the TV and heading to the bedroom. Sleep was what I needed. Tomorrow was another day, another shift that would require my full attention, not this distracted bullshit over a woman I'd known for all of fifteen minutes.
In my bedroom, I pulled back the covers, stripped down to my boxers, and slid between the sheets. My body was heavy with exhaustion, but my mind raced… the ceiling, the collapse, the split-second decisions that determined who walked out and who didn't. I stared into the darkness, willing sleep to come, trying not to think about her dark, intelligent eyes.
When sleep finally dragged me under, it wasn't the peaceful oblivion I needed.
I was back at the warehouse, five years ago, with smoke so thick I could barely see my hand in front of my face. The radio crackled at my shoulder.
"Crawford, where are you? I got a victim, east side, but the floor's going." Reggie's voice was tight with urgency.
"Coming to you. Hold position," I responded, already moving toward him.
The heat was unbearable, even through my turnout gear. Sweat poured down my face inside my mask, stinging my eyes. The smoke cleared for a split second, and Reggie, supporting a semiconscious man, looked my way.
"Hurry, man. This shit's about to go."
I was almost there, just a few more steps, when the sound came — the terrible groan of metal and wood giving way. Reggie's eyes widened in recognition of what was coming.
"Liam—"
The floor collapsed beneath him in a shower of sparks and debris. I lunged forward, arm outstretched, fingers grasping at air where my best friend had been standing seconds before.
"Reggie!"
The scene shifted, and suddenly, I was in the house on Long Street, carrying Gisselle down the hallway. Reggie was standing there, his face accusatory.
"You didn't save me," he accused as flames engulfed him.
I tried to go back for him, but my feet were rooted to the floor. Gisselle's weight in my arms became impossibly heavy. Then the ceiling gave way…
I jerked awake with a gasp, sheets twisting around my sweat-soaked body. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The smoke was so vivid I thought I was still in the fire.
"Fuck!" My breaths were ragged until reality slowly filtered back in.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and dropped my head into my hands. The digital clock on my nightstand read2:23 a.m.Too early to get up, yet too late to hope for any decent sleep before my shift.Story of my fucking life.
Three days after the fire,I unpacked boxes. Smoke had clung to everything salvageable. I was in a rental that screamed temporary, with furniture straight from the 'Basic Bitch Starter Pack' section at IKEA. Still, at least I wasn't dead. Lieutenant Crawford made sure of that.
This place was sparse, a testament to how quickly I had to find somewhere to stay after the fire gutted my new home. The one-bedroom, one-bath open kitchen/living area tried hard to be a modern, minimalist space. Instead, it looked empty. The property manager called it "cozy" — realtor-speak for "small as hell." Nonetheless, beggars who had their shit almost burned to a crisp couldn't be choosers.
I unpacked a kitchen box.I'm alive,I reminded myself as I stacked plates in the sink to be washed. Still, I tried to shake the thoughts I'd almost lived my final moments on this earth. Then Lieutenant Crawford burst through the door like something out of a damn movie. He'd scooped me up like I weighed nothing and had become a human shield between the flames and me.
Mmhmm, the solidity of him: broad chest, strong arms, and how he tucked me against him when debris rained down around us, the surprising gentleness in his hands that looked like they could bend steel. Yet, his eyes were intense and haunted.
I shook my head, annoyed with myself. I moved to Goodwin Grove to escape the intensity of big-city life and the high-pressure architecture firm, where sixty-hour weeks were considered taking it easy. Not to mention the toxic relationship, which left me questioning my own sanity, I'd come here for peace and space to breathe. I wanted to rediscover the joy in creating, and already, the first fine ass man I encountered crossed my mind, even if he had literally carried me through the fire.
I continued unpacking my trauma along with my boxes. I mean, the man saved my life. Was it so strange that I couldn't get him out of my head? Though it was gratitude that made my stomach flutter when I thought of him and the way he checked on me, there was a hint of reluctance in his stance as he walked away.
By evening, my apartment almost looked livable. My clothes were washed and put away, and the kitchen was functional. I stood in the center of my living room, surveying my progress. It then dawned on me that I needed to thank the lieutenant properly. Plus, it would help me close the loop by giving real acknowledgment of what he'd done.
