Page 23 of Controlled Burn
Wanting Too Much
Talia
Talia lay in her bunk, staring at the ceiling like it might finally give her answers.
The station breathed around her, alive in its nighttime rhythms—muffled laughter from the TV room, the soft rasp of someone snoring, the gentle pulse of a phone charger blinking in the dark. Usually, those quiet noises lulled her, reminded her she belonged somewhere.
Tonight, they grated.
Her muscles still buzzed from earlier. From Watts. From Maddox. From the heat in his voice when he’d said, “You. With me. Now.” And the way he’d looked at her. Like she was the storm.
That look—he’d stared at her like she was lightning: wild and unpredictable, something dangerous that fascinated and terrified him at once.
She should’ve felt powerful after confronting Watts—felt strong for standing tall when everyone else shrank back. But she didn’t. She felt raw, stripped down, exposed beneath the unforgiving glare of station fluorescents and whispered judgments.
Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, rough as the bourbon that coated his words toward the end. “You’re either going to burn the world down, or you’re gonna get burned. No middle with you, Talia.”
He’d said it proudly, eyes gleaming, but she knew better now. He’d been a hero, a legend—until scandal dragged him down, doused him in disgrace, leaving their home thick with silence and shame. His disappointment had carved into her deeper than any pride he’d ever offered.
Sometimes, Maddox reminded her of him. That same relentless intensity. That quiet demand for excellence. But Maddox didn’t lecture about integrity or honor. He embodied it.
Yet despite that—or maybe because of it—she ached to break him open. To watch him abandon rules he’d never dreamed of crossing.
She rolled onto her side, heart thudding, air heavy with longing and something darker. Something tangled and wrong and irresistible.
This was becoming a problem.
Her fingers slipped beneath the blanket, trembling slightly. She wasn’t thinking straight. Hadn’t been for days. Not since the locker room. Not since the first time his voice dipped low and told her to listen.
*He’s married.*
The thought pierced her chest like a shard of glass. She’d never been that girl. Had never even looked at a married man before.
She used to judge women who did. Weak women. Selfish women. The kind her dad scoffed at when they came crying into the station.
“Women like that don’t last in this job, Talia. Too needy. Too soft. Gets ‘em eaten alive.”
And now? Now she was under a blanket, practically shaking for a man with a gold ring on his finger.
She hadn’t wanted anyone since her father died. Hadn’t trusted herself to.
Grief had calcified into distance. Control. Armor.
But Maddox...
He broke through that like it was nothing.
She wanted to leave him alone. Meant to. But when he was near, her reasoning turned to ash, and her body started to throb.
And worst of all? He looked sad. That quiet, hollow kind of sadness. The type that lived in his eyes, even when his jaw was set and his uniform perfect. It was in the way he unraveled—quiet, restrained, like he was stitched too tight and fraying at the seams. And God help her, she wanted to be the thread that held him together, even if it tore her apart.
She bit her lip and let her hand slip lower.
She wanted to be seen. Not for her body. Not for her last name. For who she was when the mask slipped.
She craved the moment he’d finally shatter his own rules in her name.
And that craving? It left fractures in places she didn’t know could crack.
