Page 13 of Controlled Burn
“Enough.” Maddox’s tone was flat, but she could smell the faint tang of his station coffee and the lingering trace of her lavender shampoo in the air. She steadied herself, unhooked the mask, and let darkness swell behind her lids as she gulped in air.
Across the bay, the team collapsed around the table—Gatorade bottles bobbing in tired hands. Reyes slumped like a wounded soldier. Talia peeled off her coat, the soaked fabric hitting the floor with a soft thud. Her base layer clung to her, damp and clinging. She toweled off by the lockers, each swipe a promise: she was still standing.
Brooks hovered by the far wall, eyes flicking toward the station cameras, always keeping a little distance—watchful, unreadable. Near the medic unit, Kennedy lingered—sweet, quiet, clutching a clipboard to her chest, offering Talia a shy, encouraging smile before ducking out of sight.
Maddox pretended not to watch—tinkering with a nozzle, winding a hose. But she felt the gravity of his gaze as surely as if his eyes left fingerprints burned into her back. She straightened, tossed the towel over her shoulder, and stepped into his line of sight with deliberate grace.
Just loud enough:
“I like when you make me work for it.”
She didn’t look back, but she felt it—the brief crack in the air, like the station held its breath.
Maddox
He stared at the row of helmets hung neatly on their pegs, the glossy shells untouched and waiting. Talia Cross was a problem he couldn’t solve—too young, too fierce, too raw, with a spine made of steel and a mouth that dared him to care.
Her words echoed in his mind: *I like when you make me work for it.*
He unclipped his gloves one finger at a time, a ritual to slow the storm she sparked inside him. Each tug of leather from skin was a small victory, but the tension in his chest only tightened.
He remembered last night’s locker room heat: her skin under his palm, the way she’d tilted her head back and challenged him with those blue eyes. He’d almost given in. He didn’t let himself forget it now.
She was by the lockers again, towel draped over one shoulder, the curve of her muscles visible beneath that soaked tank top. Dog tags gleamed for a heartbeat at her collar—her father’s tags, worn and scratched. He’d seen them flash once during a call; the sight had rattled him harder than any sire
He crossed the bay and stopped just close enough that he could taste the lingering smoke in her hair. She tilted her chin up, daring him.
“You ever going to cut me loose, Captain?” Her voice was both a challenge and a caress.
He weighed her words, the silence stretching between them like a hose filled with high-pressure water.
“Cut you loose?” he echoed, voice rough as gravel.
“All the extra drills, the mind games, the double shifts—when do I get a break?”
He stepped closer. The scent of char and sweat and lavender washed over him, potent and disorienting. Her towel slipped lower, revealing the tension in her jaw—unyielding, fierce.
“I don’t think you want me to cut you loose,” he said at last, eyes locked on hers.
Her breath hitched, soft as a match struck in the dark. “No,” she whispered. “I want you to snap.”
He exhaled, a slow release of air that smelled of engine oil and regret. For a moment, the entire bay was theirs: no clatter of equipment, no distant calls for the next drill rotation. Just the hum of lights and the friction of what he wanted versus what he was sworn to be.
Without thinking, he reached up and brushed a strand of damp hair from her forehead, fingertips grazing her skin like fire. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
“I can’t snap,” he murmured, fingers lingering at her temple. “Because if I do—there’s no putting it back.”
Her pulse fluttered beneath his touch, the war in her eyes blazing even brighter. He forced himself to withdraw, the ache in his arm a reminder of how close he’d come to breaking every rule in the book.
He turned and walked away, the echo of his boots a drumbeat of guilt. Behind him, she stood perfectly still, skin hot from his ghost of a touch.
Reyes glanced over, caught the moment, then looked away fast. No one spoke. The silence was thick with unspoken truths—as volatile as any fire they’d ever fought.
And for the first time, Dean Maddox realized that neither of them could hide the blaze smoldering between them for much longer.
Chapter 7
Line Crossed
