Page 26 of Controlled Burn
“If this backfires, my badge goes down too. But I don’t need to sleep with the captain to recognize a good leader.”
His heart stuttered painfully in his chest. She issued the words like a challenge, daring him to contradict her truth.
“I’ll write a statement,” she said, smirking—but her eyes held shadows, concern lurking beneath the bravado.
Dean swallowed hard, torn between pride and guilt. He should’ve refused and told her to protect herself, to stay clear of the blast zone. But instead, he nodded.
Because he didn’t just want her protection, God help him—he needed it.
Dean’s Drive Home (Earlier That Night)
The road blurred under his headlights, mist curling against the windshield like smoke. His wife’s voice echoed in his ear from an earlier voicemail.
“I scheduled parent-teacher night. Don’t forget this time.”
He hadn’t replied.
Guilt curled low in his gut, slow and bitter. He had a son. A wife. A home that felt more like a place to sleep than a refuge. And yet, his thoughts always circled back to the station. To Cross. To that moment in the bay when she stood between him and ruin.
Later That Night – Behind the Bay Doors
The battalion chief found him between the rigs, the man’s voice low and carefully neutral.
“Cross backed you,” the chief reported quietly. “Said you ride her hard, but fair. Said you’re the best leader she’s had.”
Dean kept perfectly still, refusing to let relief surface.
“The crew agreed. Said you treat them like soldiers.”
Soldiers. The word carried familiar weight—structure, clarity, discipline.
“Watts will be rotated out, eventually,” the chief added. “She has a pattern. You don’t.”
Dean gave a curt nod, tight and controlled.
But his mind was no longer on HR or reputation. It was on Talia Cross. The way she’d stood before him, fierce as flame, protective as armor. The steel in her spine. The loyalty in her voice.
“I don’t need to sleep with the captain…”
Christ.
He’d been married for fifteen years. Yet never once had his wife defended him like that. Never once had she looked at him with that kind of fierce, raw determination.
And here was Talia—reckless, maddening, vibrant Talia, inked dahlias trailing up her arms and glossy pink lips always pressed into stubborn lines—and she was holding him together.
Kitchen Table, Post-Crew Debrief
The kitchen had emptied. Talia sat at the far end of the table with her boots off, sipping water like it might wash the day away. Dean lingered nearby, drying a mug he didn’t need to.
“Thanks,” he said quietly.
Talia didn’t look up. “Don’t thank me unless it sticks.”
He chuckled, then stopped himself. Their eyes met. The air between them buzzed, heavy and charged. He couldn’t stop noticing the curve of her wrist, the way her knee bounced under the table.
“I’m not asking you to… say anything,” she said finally. “But I meant it.”
“I know.”
