Page 25 of The Flames Between Us

"I'm so sorry, Dr. Morgan," Jim says. "He just rushed past me. I couldn't stop him."

"It's alright," I assure my receptionist, though the situation is anything but alright. "Why don't you take an early lunch? Take an hour."

Jim hesitates, clearly concerned about leaving me alone with this agitated man. But Jim only knows Ollis is my patient—doesn't know our complicated history or what transpired yesterday.

"Go on," I insist gently. "Everything's fine."

Once Jim reluctantly leaves, I close my office door and turn to face Ollis. He's still standing in the center of the room, turnout coat open over his department t-shirt, his chest rising and falling with gradually slowing breaths. The scent of smoke clings to him, mingling with sweat and something acrid—perhaps chemicals from whatever fire he's just come from.

Despite my professional resolve, my heart races at the sight of him. He looks wild, exhilarated, more alive than I've ever seen him—and devastatingly attractive in his disheveled state.

"Ollis," I say, keeping my voice calm and even, "take a deep breath and tell me what happened. Slowly."

He runs a hand through his hair, leaving a smudge of soot across his forehead. The smile that breaks across his face is radiant, transforming his usually serious features.

"I goddamn did it, Everly," he says, quieter now but no less intense. "Chemical fire at the manufacturing plant on the west side. Worst kind of fire—toxic smoke, risk of explosion, terrible visibility. And I went in. First through the door."

I want to embrace him, to share in this moment of triumph that means so much to him. My body actually leans forward slightly before I catch myself, maintaining a careful distance.

"That's remarkable progress," I say instead, professional words failing to capture the significance of what he's telling me. "Can you walk me through what happened?"

He paces a few steps, too energized to stand still. "We got the call about forty minutes ago. The plant supervisor said there were still three workers unaccounted for. When we arrived, the loading bay was fully engulfed, chemical smoke everywhere. Brock looked at me when we were suiting up with oxygen," Ollis continues. "Asked if I wanted perimeter duty. And I just... knew I was ready. Told him I was going in with the primary search team."

"And then?" I ask, genuinely invested in his experience, despite knowing I should maintain a more emotional distance.

"Lewis, Grant, and I went in through the east entrance. Visibility was maybe two feet at best. Heat was intense. All the conditions that would normally trigger me." His eyes meet mine, bright with triumph. "But I used the techniques—focusing on my breathing, grounding myself in physical sensations, separating past from present."

My professional pride in his application of the therapeutic techniques wars with my personal reaction to his proximity, to the lingering electricity between us from yesterday's kiss.

"We found two workers huddled in a storage closet," he continues, unaware of my internal conflict. "Got them out, handed them off to the paramedics. Then went back in for the third."

He pauses, and I can see him reliving the moment, processing it even as he shares it with me.

"There was a partial ceiling collapse while we were searching the office area," he says, his voice quieter now. "Same sound, same circumstances as Henderson. But instead of freezing, I was able to recognize the trigger and push through it. We found the last worker unconscious under a desk and I carried him out."

"Ollis, that's incredible progress," I say sincerely. "You faced your worst trigger in the most challenging conditions possible, and you overcame it."

"Because of you," he says, taking a step toward me. "Because of what you taught me."

I take a corresponding step back, maintaining distance. "No, because of your own hard work. The techniques only work if you implement them, which you did beautifully."

"You have no idea how much you've helped me," he says, his voice dropping to a lower register that has my legs shaking. "How much you've changed everything."

I should redirect this conversation. Should reiterate professional boundaries. Should tell him about Dr. Reynolds and my plan to transfer his case.

Instead, I hear myself asking, "Why did you come here directly from the scene? Surely there were protocols to follow, debriefings..."

"Brock gave me an hour," he explains. "Said I'd earned it after what we just pulled off. The others are handling the cleanup." He pauses, studying my face intently. "I needed to see you. To tell you in person."

The intensity in his gaze makes it impossible to maintain eye contact. I look away, focusing on the degrees hanging on my wall, reminders of my professional obligations.

"Do you regret it?" he asks suddenly.

I don't have to ask what "it" is. The memory of his lips on mine, his hands beginning to unbutton my blouse, is vivid in both our minds.

"I have to," I say carefully. "It was unprofessional. A violation of therapeutic boundaries that I'm ethically obligated to take seriously."

"That's not what I asked," he challenges, taking another step closer. "Do you, Everly—not Dr. Morgan, not the therapist—regret what happened between us?"

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