Page 98 of Controlled Burn
She didn’t cry. Not anymore. Not since her dad’s funeral—the last time she’d let herself split open, sobbing until her throat blistered and her eyes sealed shut with salt. She’d learned, after that, that grief doesn’t care about your tears. It just keeps coming.
But now, staring at her reflection—flushed skin, mussed braid, the faint red imprint of Brooks’s hand still ghosting herjaw—something cracked. Not a sob. Not even a tear. Just a sting. A fissure beneath the surface.
She turned on the tap. Let the cold water rush. Watched it swirl red before thinning out. A shallow scratch on her palm—must’ve caught the edge of the busted soap dispenser when she shoved him. She didn’t remember doing it.
The walk back to the bay felt like penance.
Each footstep echoed too loudly. The air was heavy with the stale scent of grease, yesterday’s coffee, and the chemical tang of floor polish. When she passed through the bay doors, the room hiccupped, only for a beat. Ryan looked up. Nina, too.
Talia didn’t stop. Her shift wasn’t over. And she’d be damned if anyone saw her fall apart.
She threw herself into gear checks.
Bunker pants. SCBA. Nozzle pulls. Her hands moved fast—automatic. Her brain lagged.
But the memory pressed in anyway.
Brooks’s breath in her ear. His hands. His mouth. The way he touched her was like he had a right. The way her body had hesitated—not recoiled fast enough. The way shame slid into heat, before it curdled.
I didn’t want it. But God… I wanted something.
She didn’t report it.
What would she even say? That she’d moaned into the mouth of a man who cornered her? That her desire was so fucked up, it didn’t always come with consent? That Maddox lived in her blood now—so deep she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began?
No. There were no words for this kind of ruin.
But someone else had found some.
She was behind the rig when McKenna appeared—shoulders tight, boots loud against the floor.
“Talia,” she said, voice quiet but sharp. “Need a word.”
No office. No clipboard. Just behind the engine, near the gear lockers.
“HR flagged your name,” McKenna said without preamble.
Talia’s chest clenched. “What?”
“Conduct concerns. Unspecified.” McKenna crossed her arms. “But when they use language like that? It’s never nothing.”
Talia’s stomach pitched. “Who—?”
“Anonymous,” McKenna said. “But if I had to guess? Someone covering their ass before it bites them.”
Brooks. Of course. He’d flipped the script.
McKenna’s voice softened, just barely. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But listen close.”
Talia lifted her eyes.
“They don’t need proof,” McKenna said. “Just patterns. Enough whispers. Enough people looking sideways. And they’ll come for the rookie, not the veteran.”
Talia nodded once. Her throat was tight. Too tight to speak.
“I’ve seen it before,” McKenna said. “HR pretends they’re neutral. But they’ll always choose the easy move over the right one.”
The air in the bay felt like static, like it might crackle if she moved incorrectly.
