Page 65 of Controlled Burn
Every laugh sounded like a warning. Every shared glance between his crew landed like a secret being passed behind his back. He saw it—felt it—knocking inside his skull, gnawing his patience down to the bone. Even Reyes, his rock, had gone silent. Brent muttered and ducked out of the kitchen as soon as Dean entered. Jokes died. Music was softer. Doors shut with just a little more force than before.
And Talia?
He could still feel her—could feel the echo of her touch, the heat that refused to fade, the memory of her breathless voice in his ear. But now she moved like a shadow. Always busy, always early, always just out of reach. She never met his eyes. It was a new kind of torture—one he deserved, maybe, but it gutted him all the same. She haunted the periphery, everywhere and nowhere, a ghost in his kingdom.
Dean had always craved quiet. Now he wanted to break something to hear her repeat his name.
Talia
The locker room was a tomb. She felt it before she even stepped inside—a hush thick as fog, the kind that fills your lungs and dares you to breathe too loud. It was the silence of people making up their minds about you before you even walk in the door.
No one looked up. Not Kennedy, who used to pass her hair ties with a smile. Not Brooks, who’d always slipped her protein bars after tough calls. Even the girls from other shifts—the ones who used to talk about exes and the best places to hide tampons—barely nodded anymore. Watts, meanwhile, looked right through her, that knife-sharp smile carved deep into her face.
Kennedy tried, once—a brief, faltering smile—but when Talia offered one back, Kennedy’s eyes darted away. Too scared, maybe, to pick a side. Brooks just hid behind his phone.
The message was clear: Talia wasn’t one of them anymore. She was the cautionary tale. The liability. The rumor. The thing they didn’t want to touch, in case it spread.
She could feel it crawl over her skin, a thousand crawling judgments and muttered accusations: She slept her way in. She’s being protected. She’s why HR showed up.
Nothing she did could change it. Early arrivals, spotless charts, silent effort—none of it mattered when her name was the problem.
And Maddox? He didn’t hide. He met her gaze in the hallway, let the world see him look at her like she was the only damn thing left that mattered. But that didn’t make her feel better. It made her ache. It made her want things she wasn’t sure she could survive.
The slow pace of the shift was brutal—each minute dragged out, sharp and unbearable. An overdose. A fender bender that didn’t even leave a scratch. An older man with chest pain who just needed reassurance.
By dinner, the tension was a living thing, pulsing between the walls. Watts dropped cookies in the kitchen, feigning sweetness, but nobody bit. Brent joked about protein shakes and got nothing but blank stares.
Dean left first, grabbing a clipboard that didn’t need grabbing, and vanished. Talia counted seconds—ten, then fifteen. Her legs wouldn’t let her sit still any longer.
The bay was dark, the rig hulking in the shadows. Fluorescents flickered, casting everything in a sickly blue light. Dean leaned on Ladder 12, looking like he could barely hold himself up, like the weight of the whole station was on his back.
He looked up, eyes rimmed red, and the space between them crackled.
“I’m not going to break,” she said, voice low, fierce.
His mouth barely twitched, not quite a smile. “Didn’t say you would.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m protecting you.”
She stepped closer, something desperate and stubborn knotting inside her. “I don’t need that.”
He stared at her like she was both the match and the gasoline. “Yes, you do.”
She held his gaze, refusing to blink. “I lied to HR.”
Dean’s breath hitched, chest rising. “So did I.”
“That makes us liars, Maddox.”
He shook his head, a bitter laugh. “Do you regret it?”
She hesitated. The truth cracked her open. “No.”
“Then we’re screwed.”
She stepped into his space, the last distance between them gone. Her heart hammered. He reached for her—slow, unsure—his palm settling against her cheek with a gentleness that hurt. His thumb dragged a line from jaw to throat to collarbone, like he was trying to etch her into memory before letting go.
