Page 1 of The Flames Between Us

Chapter 1 - Ollis

I hate being benched.

That's what this feels like—being sidelined while everyone else runs into the flames. The alarm blares through the station, and I'm on my feet with the rest of them, muscle memory taking over as I suit up. But I already know how this will play out.

"Warehouse fire on Elmwood," Chief Brock shouts, his voice carrying over the organized chaos. "Lewis, Grant, you're on point. Max, you're on the truck."

No assignment for me. It doesn't need to be said out loud. I'll drive the second truck, help with the perimeter, and maybe man the hoses. But I won't be going in.

"Ollis," Brock catches my eye as the others rush past. "You know the drill."

I nod curtly, swallowing the protest that rises in my throat. It's been eight weeks since I froze at the doorway of the Pineridge apartment complex, since I felt the heat of the flames and saw not the actual hallway before me but the memory of another fire, another victim, another failure.

The trucks scream through the streets of Cedar Falls, sirens cutting through the crisp autumn air. Fall used to be my favorite season. Now it just reminds me of that night two months ago when the Henderson house went up, and I couldn't reach the old man in time.

At the warehouse, I take my position, setting up the exterior hoses while Lewis and Grant disappear into the smoke-filled building. This is what I've been reduced to—watching the action from the outside, like some civilian spectator instead of a fifteen-year veteran.

"South entrance secured," I report into the radio. My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"Copy that," Brock responds. He doesn't say more, but I can hear what he's thinking. That I'm wasting my talent. That I need to get my head straight.

The fire takes three hours to contain. No casualties, thank God, but the warehouse is a total loss. Back at the station, the adrenaline high fades into the familiar post-call routine—cleaning equipment, filing reports, the good-natured ribbing that's always been part of firehouse culture.

"Nice work with that hose, Ollis," Max says, punching my shoulder lightly as he passes. "Almost took us out with the pressure."

I manage a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. “Y’all need to stay on your toes."

Max pauses, staring at me for a moment too long. He's different since Jennie came into his life, more observant. "You good, man?"

"Fine," I answer automatically. The standard response. The lie we all tell.

He nods, not convinced but smart enough not to push. That's the thing about firehouses—everyone knows everything, but we all pretend certain topics are off-limits. My breakdown is the elephant in every room I enter.

I'm finishing my report when Brock appears in the doorway of the small office I've retreated to. The chief has a way of filling a room just by standing in it—thirty years of command presence doesn't fade even in civilian clothes.

"My office," he says simply. Not a request.

I follow him down the hall, past the common area where Lewis and Grant are arguing about some basketball game.

Brock closes the door behind us and settles into his chair. The office is spartan—a few commendations on the wall, a photo of his old military unit, a desk that's seen better days.

"It's been eight weeks, Ollis."

I stare at a point just over his left shoulder. "I'm aware of the timeline, Chief."

"You're one of the best firefighters I've ever worked with." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "But this can't continue. You're not serving yourself or this team by staying in limbo."

"I'm doing my job," I protest, but the words sound weak even to me.

"Part of your job. I need you all in or all out." His voice softens a fraction. "Look, I get it. Henderson wasn't your fault—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "Just... don't."

Brock sighs, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. "I've arranged for you to see someone."

"A shrink?" I can't keep the disdain from my voice. "With all due respect, Chief, I don't need some head doctor asking how I feel about my mother."

"She's a trauma specialist. Works with first responders." He slides a card across the desk. "Dr. Everly Morgan. Your first appointment is tomorrow at two."

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