Page 105 of Controlled Burn
When she could breathe again, she dressed in loose-fitting joggers and a clean black tank top, pulled her damp hair into a bun. Stood barefoot in front of the living room window and watched the world exist like nothing had happened.
Outside, it was the sound of birdsong, sun glare, and the rumble of trash trucks.
Inside, she was bleeding.
***
The firehouse felt colder than usual.
Talia showed up early. Uniform tight, boots spotless. Her gear was lined up perfectly, like it could hold her together. She walked past the rigs like she didn’t feel eyes following her—Jake’s especially. Always Jake’s.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. Just watched her with the quiet confidence of a man who’d tasted her and believed she’d liked it.
Dean was by the truck, cleaning a ladder that didn’t need cleaning. His jaw was tight. His eyes met hers for half a second. He looked like he hadn’t slept either. His silence pressed heavier than Jake’s stare—like he knew, like he hated himself for knowing, like he wasn’t going to say a damn thing.
She kept walking.
Ryan looked away. Brooks didn’t. Kennedy glanced at her, then quickly at the floor. A whisper passed between Kennedy and Nina. Talia didn’t need to hear the words. She could read shame fluently now.
Jake laughed at something Brent said. Too loud. Too sharp. Like a knife sliding into her ribs.
They pulled a call before morning drill—a structure fire, single-family residence, with smoke showing. No occupants inside.
The truck swerved hard toward 28th and Chestnut, the engine’s scream giving her something else to focus on.
Talia suited up in silence. Pulled her helmet on. Snapped her gloves.
King was on the line beside her. Dean gave the orders in a tight, clipped tone.
“Two lines to the rear. Ladder for vent.”
Talia caught King’s eye through the smoke. He gave a single nod. Not reassurance. Not protection. Respect. That shouldn’t have meant so much.
Inside, the smoke curled like ghosts around her boots. Her flashlight cut shapes through the dark—flickering walls, collapsed chairs, a baby’s overturned crib.
It wasn’t a bad burn. Mostly cosmetic. But the heat was heavy, thick like breath on her neck. She forced herself forward, sweeping left, checking corners, focusing on the job.
They knocked it down in under fifteen minutes. No injuries. Clean work.
But even after rehab and overhaul, Talia’s lungs still felt too full.
***
Back at the station, she showered again. Faster this time. No scrubbing. Just hot water and silence.
When she opened her locker, there was a new note inside. No name. Folded once. No handwriting she recognized.
Inside: a printed still from the video. A different angle. Her face. Mid-orgasm. Head tilted, lips parted, eyes glazed. Body bent open, legs spread, stained in grayscale.
Her stomach flipped.
It was grainy. Blown-up. But it was her.
She scanned the corners—no cameras she could see. Someone had saved this and edited it. Waited.
Jake didn’t have the tech skills. Brooks did.
She pressed her hand to the locker wall. Tried to breathe. Her ribs locked up. The room spun.
