Page 20 of Flashover

I turn the fabric over in my hands, thumb brushing the burn-warped letters. He’d been closest when the flashover came.

This is all I have left of him; I never found the rest.

I’m buffeted by the winds, having to brace myself to avoid rocking or stumbling back. I can hear the rookies laugh. Gear clinks. Normal.

I stuff the tag back in my jacket pocket. Not out of guilt. Not anymore.

To remember why I walk into the fire. Why I push Diaz and the others harder than the brass wants. Why I bark when theyhesitate and stand too long at the edge of a drop. Because the next blowback won’t take me by surprise. Not again.

I won’t lose another crew.

“Check that stump,” I say, pointing with the tip of my Pulaski. “It’s still breathing.”

One of the rookies—Valdez—jogs over and shoves the nozzle into the heart of the charred stump. The instant water hits ember, a piercing hiss tears through the silence, warning sharp and sudden, followed by a sharp pop that ricochets off the rocks. Steam bursts upward in a sulfurous plume, stinging the nostrils and carrying the bitter scent of burned sap. The wood swells, black veins pulsing with heat, and for a moment, it looks like the entire stump is breathing fire. A flare-up waiting to happen—until Valdez yanks back, eyes wide beneath his helmet.

"Good catch," Valdez mutters, backing off. "Smelled it before I saw it."

I nod but keep scanning. The wind has turned again, sweeping west over the ridge, tugging at my gear and stirring the smoke like restless ghosts. With it comes a new scent—sharper, hotter, threaded with the bite of fresh combustion. Less of the sodden, smothered ash we’ve been slogging through and more of something raw. Untamed. Close enough to taste. Close enough to mean trouble.

A gust barrels in from the east, stirring the smoke into motion—a sentient wave rippling through the hollow. It dives into the root bed of a downed pine, fanning buried embers. The wood flares in a sudden shimmer, a heartbeat of molten orange racing across bark and branch. In a single breath, sparks erupt in a furious swarm, streaking skyward—fireflies flung from a forge. The ground ignites in flashes, pulsing with heat and promise—an inferno ready to run wild.

“Back!” I shout. “Form up—defensive line, thirty feet!”

We scatter. Heat slams into me, dry and ravenous, a furnace door blown wide. Fire snaps at my heels, tearing through pine duff, feasting on roots and brittle limbs. My eyes sting. Breath rasps in as I scan for a way out, but the flames are already curling in from behind, snarling and fast.

My crew clears the burn line, but I zig toward a cluster of boulders, hoping for cover—only to find I’ve cornered myself. Smoke thickens, pressing close, a suffocating presence tightening around me, and I know it: I’ve walked straight into a fire trap in the middle of mop-up hell.

Then I see him—rising out of the haze with the sure, slow stride of someone born from flame. Kade.

No mask. No helmet. Just raw power and that unnerving calm that treats wildfire as nothing more than background noise. His braid is singed at the end, his shirt clings with sweat, and his eyes find mine through the churn of ash and light.

"You always this good at getting yourself boxed in?" he calls.

"Only when I’m bored!"

He grins and jerks his head. "Come on. There’s a gap upwind."

I follow without hesitation, every step syncing with his as the world narrows to smoke and glowing embers. His silhouette moves like something elemental—half man, half memory—cutting through the inferno without fear. Sparks wheel around us in silent bursts, fireflies cast from the ribs of the earth, painting our path in flickering gold. We squeeze through a narrow corridor where the flames have already fed and faded, the ground scorched and glossy with residual heat. Each breath tastes of soot and warning, but the scar we cross is stable—for now.

I stop once we’re clear and whirl on him. "Okay, now that you’ve saved me again, want to tell me what the hell you are?"

He doesn’t blink. "Later."

"Bullshit. I’m tired of secrets. You show up out of nowhere, pull stunts that defy physics, and forge weird jewelry that feels like it’s alive."

His gaze drops to the pendant under my shirt, then lifts to my eyes. "That’s protection. Nothing more."

"Then why does it hum?" I press my hand to the metal. "Why does it feel like it’s watching me?"

He steps in close, heat bleeding off him—smoky and familiar, a living forge. “Because I made it with more than just metal.”

I should step back. I don’t. I lean in instead, drawn by the heat rolling off him and the way his scent—smoke, sweat, and something elemental—wraps around my senses. My pulse stutters. Every part of me feels too alive, too aware, as if I’ve edged too near a wildfire and dared it to see me.

I’m breathing him now—smoke, sweat, and something primal threaded with heat—scorched cedar crackling in the dark, the breathless hush before lightning strikes.

His hand lifts slowly, fingertips grazing the chain at my neck, stirring sparks beneath my skin. He trails lower, knuckles brushing the hollow of my throat, the touch whisper-soft but potent, until his palm settles over the pendant resting between my collarbones. Warmth radiates from him—not burning, but charged—heat laced with hunger, anchoring itself in my bones, a secret only my body remembers how to keep.

Heat blooms beneath his palm, a steady throb that sinks into my skin and spreads through my chest—not fire, not magic, but something older. Something alive. Like the forge of his body is answering mine, stoking embers I didn’t know I carried. My breath falters, chest rising to meet the warmth, caught between surrender and ignition. It’s not just heat—it’s hunger wrapped in memory, a tether drawn tight beneath my skin.

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