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He tried the radio. “Engine One, need assist, rear office. Structure collapse. I’m pinned down.”

No answer.

The smoke dropped, thick and low. He could feel it in his chest—it was getting harder to breathe. It felt like the air was running out.

Outside, he thought he heard another collapse, and then the pop of a window giving way. He braced himself, tried to focus, and stay conscious. He thought of his dad and his advice—if you get stuck, wait. Help will come. But that hadn’t worked for him. His father had gone into a fire and never came back out. Sometimes you got trapped, and there was no rescue coming.

Then he heard her. “Brandon. Holloway,” Desiree’s voice, way too close to the fire. What was she thinking?

“Here,” he coughed. The next inhale was half smoke. His oxygen was puttering out.

He heard boots hit the hallway. The thump of something heavy—a pry bar, maybe. She was calling his name again, closer, and then a gloved hand grabbed his jacket.

“Don’t move,” she said, clear as a bell through her mask that she must have borrowed from the engine. He almost laughed, but the smoke made him cough instead.

Ruiz was beside her, levering the bar beneath the shelf. The firefighter put his full weight into it, and told him, “On three, you push.”

“You can do this,” Desiree encouraged.

Brandon nodded, barely able to make either of them out through the haze, but grateful they were both there.

“One—two—three.”

He shoved with everything he had while Ruiz used the bar. The shelf shifted, and for one second the weight on his leg eased enough for him to yank it free. He crawled forward, Desiree still beside him. Ruiz held the metal up with the bar until he was sure Brandon was clear, then let it crash to the floor behind them.

Ruiz pulled him up by the back of his collar and half-carried, half-dragged him down the hallway, Desiree following right behind in gear that was clearly too big for her. They stayed low, keeping him angled against the flames. They reached the exit just as another section of roof collapsed.

They hit the gravel outside, all three of them on hands and knees. Brandon’s leg was screaming, but all he could do was stare at Desiree, grateful that she had found him. The world was spinning, but she was there, face streaked with soot, hair plastered down, eyes frantically inspecting him for injuries.

He looked at her, and she was looking right back at him with that unguarded, raw, not-even-trying-to-hide-it stare. “You came in after me,” he said, voice hoarse.

She didn’t blink. “Don’t make it weird,” she said, but she didn’t take her hand off his arm.

The other crew members reached them a second later, Kimble with the med bag, one of the probies with oxygen.

He bowed his head, quick, just for a breath—a prayer of thanks that God had decided it wasn’t his time yet. When he looked up again, Desiree was still there, a look of relief in her face when Kimble announced that nothing was broken, and the cut wouldn’t need stitches.

Brandon covered her hand with his own, grateful beyond words for her comforting presence. For once, he wasn’t in a hurry to get back to a fire.

CHAPTER 6

The digital clock in her room glowed 4:47 a.m. in red, accusing numbers. Desiree sat up, shoved the thin pillow behind her back, and pressed her palms to the side of her forehead. Her heart was still doing the stupid hammering thing it had been doing every time she woke up after another round of restless sleep.

She’d seen plenty of firefighters in trouble before. She’d seen them carried out on stretchers, she’d seen them stagger out coughing, she’d seen them refuse to leave a scene until the last ember was dead. None of it had ever kept her up at night.

But Brandon pinned under that shelving, his voice cracking with fear—that had crawled under her skin and wouldn’t leave. She didn’t like that it bothered her so much, or what that meant for her personally.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. The carpet was thin and cold under her bare feet. She crossed to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked out at the dark shape of Sweet Bloom’s town circle. The Christmas lights were still on, blinking a pattern that didn’t seem to soothe at all. The wishing well sat in the center, its garland catching what little light the moon offered.

She let the curtain fall. Paced to the tiny desk, then back to the window. Her mind kept replaying the moment she’d heard his voice crack over the radio—the way her heart had lurched into her throat. She’d never felt that before. Not for anyone.

Desiree grabbed her phone from the nightstand. No new messages. She’d half expected one from Brandon, some joke or reassurance. But nothing. Of course not. He was probably sleeping off the pain meds they’d given him.

She opened her notes app instead and started typing, listing everything she’d observed about the fire patterns, the accelerant, the timing. Work. That was what she needed. Focus on the case, not the man.

But her fingers stilled over the keyboard. The image of Brandon’s face when she’d found him kept intruding—the way his eyes had locked onto hers, relief and something else she couldn’t name flickering there.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself, setting the phone down.