Page 14 of Controlled Burn
Maddox
His wife's voice crackled through the phone, jagged with hurt, like a bad radio signal in a thunderstorm.
"You said you'd be home this weekend."
"I never said that." Maddox ground the words out, pressing the phone so hard to his jaw he felt the pulse in his teeth. The floor was cold beneath his boots, a gritty reminder he was nowhere near home.
"Oh, so now I'm crazy too? Great. Add that to the list."
He slumped against the lockers. Fluorescent lights stuttered above, painting the steel with flickering white scars. The shadows twitched and stretched across his face, swallowing him whole.
Every call with her felt like a rerun of old pain: two people who'd run out of road, out of excuses, and out of time.
"I've been doing this solo for weeks, Dean. School drop-offs. The damn science project. He asked if you were dead today."
The words hit him where he was weakest. Guilt—thick and chemical, burning in his gut, lingering on his tongue like engine smoke.
"Don't say that."
"You don't get to be angry. You're never here. And when you are, it's like you're somewhere else entirely."
A cold, cutting silence. He could see her at home, worn thin by his absences, the kitchen's blue glow turning her into a ghost of the woman he'd once promised everything to. Maybe she was right. Perhaps he'd left long before she noticed.
"I'm tired, Dean. Tired of waiting for you to come home. Tired of pretending this marriage isn't already ash."
The line went dead with a final click that felt like a verdict. No goodbye. Just absence, and the echo of it rattling his bones.
He jammed the phone into his locker. The bang echoed like a gunshot in the empty corridor.
He stared at the reflection that looked nothing like a hero—gaunt, shadowed, hungry for the kind of touch that didn't taste like obligation. He moved through the station, each step heavy, slow, lost. Not a husband. Not a captain. Just a man being stripped down, piece by piece, by his undoing.
Almost midnight. The station was empty as a tomb—distant pipes creaking, a faint tang of bleach and engine oil in the air. Shadows dripped from the ceiling.
In the bay, she waited.
She was crouched down, pretending to inventory couplings, but he knew better. Her hair was wet, twisted into a reckless bun, errant chestnut strands glued to her jaw. Her department shirt stuck to her like a second skin, damp enough to leave nothing toimagination. No bra. Of course not. Her nipples peaked through the faded cotton. She might as well have been daring him to call her out.
He should have turned, fled up the stairs, out into the night air. But his feet refused to move.
Because she was there—half-lit, haloed in fluorescence, eyes unreadable, lips parted like she was ready to confess or consume.
"You gonna yell at me again?" she asked, voice so dry and bored he almost laughed.
"No."
"You gonna give me another punishment drill?"
His pulse hammered so loud it felt like a warning.
"No."
She stood, slow and deliberate, her body's lines painted in stark shadow and silver. Eyes locked on his, nothing hidden, nothing safe.
"Then what?"
He closed the distance, boots loud on epoxy, until her breath mingled with his. He cupped her face like he needed the proof of her bones under his hands to keep from floating away. Her skin was slick, fever-warm.
He kissed her. Hard, desperate.
