We're standing toe-to-toe. Close enough that his cologne—something woodsy and warm that has no business being this distracting—mixes with smoke and coffee. The gleaming red fire trucks provide an absurdly dramatic backdrop for what is essentially two grown adults having a kindergarten-level argument about who gets to play in the burned-down warehouse.
A small crowd has gathered. His crew. A few curious civilians. Is that Mrs. Torres from the corner bakery?
Great. Free entertainment with the morning commute.
"You know what?" My boots grind debris into dust as I pivot. "Fine. Do whatever you want. When you compromise my scene and a potential arsonist walks free, I'll make sure everyone knows exactly who to thank. Including the DA."
"Riley, wait?—"
His voice follows as I storm toward my equipment kit near the south wall. Footsteps crunch behind me. He's actually following.
"What?" No slowing down. My mother always said stubbornness would get me in trouble. She also said I'd never land an arson job with my attitude, so her prediction record is questionable.
"Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot?—"
"The wrong foot?" The spin happens so fast he nearly collides with me. "Gentry, we've been on the wrong foot since the day you started here and immediately got yourself featured in that 'Hottest First Responders' article. Do you know how hard it is to be taken seriously as a female investigator when the media keeps focusing on which firefighters belong in a calendar?"
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "I didn't ask for that article."
"No, but you didn't exactly discourage it either." Three years of frustration bubble up like chemicals in an unstable reaction. "Every time I present findings at a council meeting, someone brings up how we need more 'community engagement' like yours. As if posting thirst traps in turnout gear is equivalent to solving arson cases."
"Thirst traps?" His voice cracks on the words—caught between indignation and what might be embarrassment. "That's what you think I'm doing?"
"What else would you call that charity car wash post? You posted seventeen different angles. Seventeen."
"I was raising money for the children's hospital!"
"One angle would have accomplished the same thing!"
We're both breathing hard now. The morning sun has climbed higher, casting dramatic shadows through the warehouse's skeletal remains. Everything smells like smoke and righteous indignation.
His hand reaches toward my shoulder—probably offering some patronizing comfort—and I jerk away on instinct. The movement is sharp enough that my boot catches on debris.
The stumble happens in slow motion. Arms pinwheeling. Dignity evacuating the premises.
Aiden's hand catches my elbow, steadying me with surprising gentleness. Two seconds of contact. Two seconds of his palm warm against my arm. Two seconds where his face is close enough that the morning light catches flecks of amber in his brown eyes.
Two seconds that feel like a total betrayal of my professional composure.
I don't notice the Gazette reporter near the perimeter until much later. By then, it's far too late.
We spring apart like we've touched a live wire. His hand hovers in the air for a moment before dropping to his side. My elbow tingles where he grabbed it. Annoying. Not worth analyzing.
"I should get back to my evidence." A strand of copper hair has escaped my bun. I tuck it behind my ear with more force than necessary.
"Right. Evidence. Important." He clears his throat. "We'll work on the north section. Away from your grid."
"Good. That's... good."
Awkward silence stretches between us. The air feels charged, like the atmosphere before a flashover.
"Lieutenant!" Whitaker's voice cuts across the lot. "You need to see this!"
Aiden backs away slowly, like I might explode if he moves too fast. Given my current state, not entirely inaccurate.
Evidence collection resumes with the focused determination usually reserved for bomb disposal. The burn patterns are fascinating. Much more interesting than thinking about how Aiden Gentry's hand felt warm through my jacket. Or how for just a moment, leaning into his grip instead of pulling away seemed tempting.
Nope. Not thinking about any of that.
