I nod, keeping my posture casual. My arm throbs faintly where the burn scrape still scabs, but there’s another ache beneath that—the one no one knows about. It twists along myside when I breathe wrong or lift too fast. The kind of pain that whispers warnings I’ve spent years learning to ignore.
I swallow down the taste of it, grab a painkiller from the small cabinet tucked near the bay doors, and brace my core. Can’t have Gabe Ashford thinking I’m weak. Not when ambition has claws this deep. Not when I have plans to take this firehouse over one day.
Captain Gabe’s voice carries over the bay. “Inspection first,” he says, hands on his belt. “Everyone knows the drill. Gear squared away, hoses rolled tight, trucks clean. Rookies, pay attention. You want to get through your first inspection without sweat dripping down your neck? Watch and learn.”
We move like clockwork. I check my turnout coat, then my helmet, then the truck’s compartments. Everything’s meticulous. Riley fumbles with the nozzle; Marco’s boots are scuffed; Rhys keeps muttering under his breath.
I make sure no one trips over themselves, but keep my distance enough that it looks like I’m just doing my own work. My side screams faintly as I bend to lift a hose. Painkiller doesn’t erase it, just dulls it.
“Lieutenant Maddox,” Gabe calls. I glance up. “How’s the arm?”
“Just a scratch,” I say lightly, flexing it. Nothing more. I don’t mention the deeper injury. Not today. Not ever. It’s a twinge, nothing anyone else needs to know about. My pride, my drive—both too stubborn to let me admit I’m human.
Once the inspection is done, the rookies shuffle to the far side, whispering. Angela crosses the bay to us, clipboard in hand. She gives me a knowing look, but it’s the kind that doesn’t demand confession. She’s seen me push too hard before. She’ll let it slide.
The morning briefing moves fast. Gabe’s voice fills the room, calm but commanding. “Fire at the Johnson warehouseyesterday, cleaned up. Maddox’s crew handled most of it. Good job, as always. Mayor’s visiting the town hall later, wants the new sheriff to meet with our town. He was in here earlier today. Fresh face—young guy, can’t be older than thirty-five. Pretty chill from what I hear. Might be interesting to see what he thinks about our work.”
Riley’s eyes widen. “Driftwood’s got a sheriff now?”
“Yeah,” Gabe says. “But focus on your duties first. We’re cleaning up this fire site today, Maddox.”
I brace, slipping on my gloves. The rubble waits. My body protests, but I ignore it. Pain can’t define me—not when I’ve come from nothing, not when I’ve clawed my way into this firehouse family. I was raised on broken promises, in a house where loyalty was a foreign word.
Before this, I only had one family member I could depend on. My cousin taught me how to ride a bike once. Outside Liam, he was the only other person who got me, but Dante’s in prison now. A casualty of life’s hard edges.
That’s why this crew, this bay, feels like home. Everyone here matters. Everyone is family.
By the time we get to the cleanup, smoke still hangs in the air, dust mixing with the tang of charred wood.
My crew works in tandem. I supervise, but my hands do the heavy lifting. Hoses, bricks, whatever needs moving. My arm burns faintly with every motion, and my side protests sharply when I twist to lift a beam. I grit my teeth, swallow another painkiller, and keep moving. The rookies flinch when I bend too fast; they don’t know it’s nothing new for me.
I glance at Angela across the site. She’s unloading a truck, moving with that same precision that makes her seem untouchable. The rookies are still gawking. I catch her eye and nod, acknowledging the silent conversation we’ve been having for months without words.
Once the last of the rubble is moved, I slump against the side of the firetruck, hands on my knees. Pain thrums beneath my ribs, but I keep my jaw tight. No one needs to know how much it hurts. Pride has a price, and I refuse to pay it with my ambition.
Later, the town hums around me as I walk down Main Street for a quick errand. I don’t usually get time to do my laundry and pick it up, so I’m glad I have the chance to do just that.
That’s when I see my best friend.
Millie’s leaning into the afternoon sun outside Driftwood Grocers, blonde hair catching the light like threads of spun gold. She’s in a soft green cardigan over a cream blouse, jeans rolled at the ankles, sneakers dusted with dew. Her basket’s half-full—milk, bread, a couple of things for the café.
My chest tightens without warning. Always her. Always this pull. Always watching from the corner of my life while she and Liam make sense in a way I never will. I force myself to step forward.
“Hey,” I say, keeping it casual.
She spins, surprise flickering in her green eyes. “Maddox.”
I drop my gear from my shoulders—my coat, helmet, gloves—and pull her into a hug. Her scent hits me, familiar yet… off. There’s something different, subtle, like rain on pavement, but sharper, sweeter than I remember.
“You’re out early,” I say, stepping back slightly. Her smile curls, warming the chill around us.
“Gotta pick up supplies for the café. You know—milk, the usual. Don’t tell me you’re on your way to town hall already.”
I grin. “Not yet. You going to the meeting about the new sheriff?” My tone is teasing, but inside, it’s like a coil of nerves tightens in my chest.
I’ve been low-key crushing on her for years, quietly, keeping it buried because Liam exists in her orbit. He makes sense. But that doesn’t stop me from noticing the way she tilts her head, the curve of her smile, or the way sunlight catches in her hair.
“Maybe,” she says lightly. “Depends on whether I have time after the café closes. I’m on clean-up duty today. What about you? You on duty?”
