Page 21 of Controlled Burn
His stomach turned to ice. This was precisely the kind of shit that got a station flagged. Made brass sniff around. Maddox couldn’t afford that—not with Battalion Chief on the table, not after eighteen years of spotless, by-the-book leadership.
He needed this house clean. Tight. Disciplined.
But when he heard Cross lay into Watts?
It stopped him cold.
She was fire. Controlled—barely. She defended her name, her choices, her sisters, even the ones who didn’t deserve it.
Watts had no business on a truck, let alone an ambulance. He knew it. HR knew it. Everyone tiptoed around her like she’d explode if they didn’t speak in soft tones.
Cross? She said it out loud.
Goddamn.
He hated how much he admired her. Hated how his gut pulled toward her every time she walked into a room. Hated how she smelled like Chanel, ash, and something that made himache. Hated how she wore her dahlia tattoo sleeve like armor and pink gloss like a dare.
Hated how long it’d been since his wife touched him. How hollow the bed felt. How quiet the mornings were. How being near Cross made him feel alive again.
A thump behind the door—body against the wall? Enough.
He pushed the door open.
“Enough,” Maddox’s voice boomed.
Everyone froze—even Brooks, who tried to slink away unnoticed
Watts looked like she’d seen a ghost. Talia looked like she’d just stepped out of a fire. Kennedy nearly shrank to nothing, glancing from one to the other, desperate not to be noticed.
He stepped between the combatants, jaw tight. “You wanna fight, do it in the ring on your own time. Not in my station.”
Watts opened her mouth. He raised a hand.
“Save it. I don’t want excuses. I want professionals.”
Then he turned to Cross. Locked eyes for a second too long.
“You. With me. Now.”
She followed him in silence. Boots heavy against tile. Gear half-zipped. Tendrils of hair falling around her face like she didn’t care who saw her undone. Kennedy slid out, grateful for the escape.
He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His jaw locked so tight it hurt.
He should’ve written her up. That’s what a good captain would do. Watts too. They both deserved it—locker room fight—verbal or not. HR would call it a hostile work environment. Insubordination. Emotional volatility.
But all he could see was Cross—standing her ground with her hands still shaking.
He opened the office door. Let her pass. Closed it with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot.
She didn’t sit. Just stood there. Arms crossed. Defiant. Raw around the edges.
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
Her laugh was short. Bitter. “What do you think?”
“I think you just handed me a goddamn HR nightmare on a silver platter.”
“I didn’t start it.”
