Page 39 of Controlled Burn
She turned toward the exit. A door creaked open behind her.
Dean.
He stood in the shadow of the utility closet, framed in the doorway. His gray shirt clung to his chest from cleanup, sleeves rolled, forearms streaked faintly with soot. His eyes locked on hers. Not stern. Not kind. Just… dark. Devouring.
“She give you the talk?” His voice was low.
Talia nodded once. “Something like that.”
Dean stepped into the corridor, moving slowly and deliberately. The space between them shrank. The buzz of the overhead light was deafening now—the only sound besides the pounding in her chest.
“She’s not wrong,” Dean said. “About the tension. About Jake.”
Talia crossed her arms. “I can handle Jake Hastings.”
“I know you can. That’s not the problem.”
Her brow arched. “Then what is?”
Dean’s jaw flexed. “The way he looks at you. Like you’re some bet. A prize. A fucking test to see who can push the farthest.”
“You think I don’t see that?”
“I think you’re underestimating how dangerous it is.”
That stopped her. Not because she hadn’t thought it, but because hearing him say it made it real in a different way. Not just locker room bullshit. Not just firehouse games. Something darker. Something waiting to ignite.
She stepped closer, voice quiet. “You think this thing between us is giving him ammo?”
Dean didn’t answer right away. His hands fisted at his sides like he didn’t trust them. “This place is a microscope.”
“She said the same thing,” Talia muttered. “McKenna. That every move is watched.”
He nodded. “Then maybe we need to stop giving them something to look at.”
But the way he said it—gravel-rough, full of regret—didn’t sound like a rule. It sounded like a plea.
Talia looked at him—really looked. His eyes weren’t just dark. They were tired. Strained. Not from the shift, but from holding everything in. And still, he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth burning for.
She stepped even closer, toe to toe. “Tell me to walk away,” she whispered.
Dean swallowed. He looked at her like she was fire—beautiful, dangerous, inevitable.
“I can’t,” he said.
“Then don’t.”
A beat.
Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the utility closet, shutting the door behind them.
The space was narrow, cluttered with backup gear and supplies. The scent of oil and bleach lingered faintly, but all she could smell was him. His breath. His skin. His tension.
Dean didn’t kiss her. Didn’t speak. He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. His hands stayed at his sides, trembling slightly.
Talia didn’t move. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t have to.
They stood there in silence—breath, heat, and restraint pressing in from all sides.
