Page 4 of Controlled Burn
He tried not to watch as she moved across the bay, but failed. The way her legs rippled beneath her shorts, the braid damp against her neck. She moved with a confidence that felt dangerous—like she could set the place on fire if she wanted.
He busied himself with gear check, pretending to be absorbed in the roster, but he could feel the tension in his body—tight, coiled. He wondered if she could feel it too.
He was careful. Never let his gaze linger too long. Never spoke her name softer than anyone else’s. But sometimes, late at night, when the station was silent and the radios hummed, he’d find himself replaying the way her voice cut through the static. The way her laughter made the walls feel less like a tomb.
He didn’t want to want her. But he did. He wanted her badly.
Talia
By the time she’d changed into her uniform and stashed her bag, the station was awake. Boots stomped, radios blared, and the engine rumbled as Brent and Reyes squared off over some dumb bet.
She ducked around them, grabbing her clipboard, making a show of studying the schedule.
She kept her head down, but she could feel Maddox’s eyes from across the bay. There was a line between them—thin, electric, constantly shifting.
She made a game of toeing it.
The confrontation happened like clockwork, but the stakes always changed.
She was draping her turnout coat over the cab door when she heard it:
“Cross. My office. Now.”
The way he said her name, low and final, sent heat straight through her.
She followed him through the glass doors, feeling every eye track her. Some watched with envy. Some with hope. Some just waited for the fallout.
He didn’t sit. He didn’t look at her.
He said, “What you wear into this station matters.”
She folded her arms. “You’re serious.”
He finally turned, jaw locked, eyes cold. “It’s not about the rule, Cross. It’s the distraction.”
The word landed between them. She could see the struggle in the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
She let out a short, sharp laugh. “Distraction to who?”
“Command asked me to address it.”
She let the hurt sharpen her voice. “So you ran their message like a good soldier? Didn’t think to mention I’ve been early every shift, pulling my weight and then some?”
He hesitated. It was a crack in the armor.
“You didn’t stand up for me.” she said, softer. She hated the way it sounded, small and angry.
He finally met her gaze, and for the first time, she saw the hunger there—masked in anger, but honest.
She took a step closer, tilting her chin up, daring him. “Why don’t you just say it? You don’t want me in these shorts because of you. Not them. You.”
He didn’t move. The silence thickened.
He said, “You’re dismissed,” his voice lower and rougher.
She smiled—slow, wicked. “That’s not a no.”
She turned on her heel and walked out, heart pounding, her skin prickling with the heat of being seen, of being wanted, of almost burning for it.
