No one should be here.
No one should look like that.
“Hello?” My voice shakes despite my best effort. “You—sir, you need to get out of here!”
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m the strange thing here.
Heat rolls off him, not like a burn, but like standing too close to a furnace. Power hums in the air, making my skin prickle.
I swallow hard. Professional. Focus.
“Sir—are you hurt? Come with me,” I say, stepping closer despite every warning bell in my body. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He doesn’t speak.
But when I reach for his arm, he lets me take it.
His skin is warm. Not burned. Not injured.
Just really, really warm. Solid. Real.
We climb the stairs together.
Smoke thickens, alarms blaring somewhere above.
When we emerge into the yard, chaos explodes back into view.
“We got her!” someone shouts from the front.
Relief floods me so hard my knees almost buckle.
They found the child. She’s alive.
Thank fuck.
Good. Now I can focus on him.
“Were you in there long?” I ask, guiding him toward the ambulance. “Did you breathe in much smoke?”
“No.”
His voice is deep. Rough.
It slides straight under my skin and settles somewhere it has no business being.
He’s really big. Tall, muscular. Intense.
My stomach clenches.
I’m painfully aware that we don’t match. Like at all.
I’m short, chubby, and wearing an ill-fitting, scratchy, polyester uniform with my hair pulled back in a severe bun. Not one drop of makeup on my face.
Shit. Did I wear deodorant this morning?
I shove all those feelings, those reactions, down.
I’m a professional.
