Page 3 of Controlled Burn
Windowless. Unforgiving. The kind of place where nothing went unseen, and nothing got washed clean—not sweat, not soot, not the memory of what the last guy did to earn a half-hearted sendoff and a plaque in the hallway.
Talia Cross was already sweating before she even hit the bay
The ritual never changed. Three-mile run in the dark, boots laced so tight her toes tingled, braid sticking to her nape with dew and effort. She arrived thirty minutes before the shift, even if the only ones who noticed were the ones looking for a reason to doubt her.
She jogged the last block past dead lawns and empty cars, the night's humidity pressing in, her legs burning in that good, defiant way. Sweat ran down her spine. Her tank top stuck to her skin, shorts clinging high on her thighs.
She could already feel the stares behind the glass, the way every man in the station leaned forward as she approached. She told herself she didn’t care. She almost believed it.
She keyed in, swinging her gym bag over her shoulder, and the familiar smells hit her like a punch—burnt coffee, bleach, sweat, grease, rubber, and beneath it all, that sour bite of old, unspoken resentment.
The firehouse didn’t hide its rot. It wore it like a badge.
Her sneakers squeaked on the concrete. She ignored the way conversations dipped and warped around her, voices dropping just enough to make her skin itch. Lieutenant Reyes was at the coffee pot, broad shoulders hunched, the hint of a smirk in the way he eyed her reflection in the polished steel.
Across the bay, Brent made a show of stretching, arms overhead, eyes flicking over her legs and then away—fast, but not fast enough.
Brooks stood half-shadowed behind the engine, gaze lingering a moment too long, his attention heavy as oil. Kennedy, the new medic, hovered near the turnout rack, giving Talia a sweet, uncertain smile that felt like sunlight—soft and out of place.
She rolled her shoulders. Let them look. Let them talk. If she had to be the show, she’d damn well be unforgettable.
She passed the truck, scent of diesel sharp, hose lines still gleaming with last night’s mud and this morning’s dew. Her chestnut hair was damp, fishtailed and tight, little strands sticking to her neck. Her thighs ached, muscles thick from years of sprinting up tower stairs. She strode past with her chin up, ignoring the stray whistle from someone who should know better.
Maybe she even smiled.
She’d learned not to flinch under their gaze and learned to walk the line between visible and invisible, desirable and off-limits. She tied her boots tighter than half these guys could manage—laces double-knotted like armor.
If the guys were going to talk about her, she’d give them something to talk about.
She was halfway past the engine when she felt it—the kind of stare that scorched. The kind that made her want to square her shoulders and run.
Maddox
Captain Maddox was impossible to miss—6’4 with the build of an ex-linebacker, all steel beams and sharp angles. Hands always steady. Jaw set with effort. He stood near the turnout rack, eyes shaded beneath the bill of his cap.
He said nothing. He didn’t have to.
But he was watching her now, really watching, and the weight of it made the air go thin.
Talia slowed, pausing to hook her gym bag over a bench, making a show of stretching out her calves, pretending not to see him even as she tracked every breath, every twitch of his hand. He watched her thighs flex as she bent to check her boots, the way her shirt rode up her back, sweat glistening along her collarbone.
She felt it all. Let him look.
She passed him, close enough to catch a whiff of cedar soap, the faint smoke clinging to his jacket. She didn’t look up. She didn’t have to. She could feel his eyes follow her all the way to her locker.
He moved behind her like a shadow—tall, solid, with the kind of shoulders that made doors feel too narrow. Six-four, maybemore. A body built to block fires or bulldoze through people. She should’ve been intimidated.
She wasn’t.
He didn’t allow himself to stare. He was too old for that shit—too seasoned, too in control. And yet.
She walked in like she owned the place. He hated that he noticed.
He’d been a captain long enough to recognize trouble in any form. Trouble in new boots, trouble in attitude, trouble in the way a woman’s laughter could split a room right down the middle. Talia Cross wasn’t loud. She didn’t have to be. She was a presence, all sharp elbows and blunt force, with a stubborn streak that set his teeth on edge.
She had the crew tied in knots, even if they pretended otherwise. He’d heard the jokes, the bets, the late-night mutters in the bunk room. He’d shut them down more than once, made it clear that shit wouldn’t fly on his watch.
But even he couldn’t control the undercurrent, the way men looked at her—hungry, resentful, hopeful. Sometimes, all at once.
