It's the kind of late-night call that makes your pulse pound for reasons that have nothing to do with caffeine.

Dispatch barely finishes the address before we're rolling—me and Janelle in the ambulance, Josh riding third, with Kai and his crew tucked on our bumper like an overprotective shadow. At 1:12 a.m., Willow Creek looks like an empty movie set: porch lights like low stars, the distant hum of a freight train, one dog in the middle distance weighing whether to bark at our sirens or mind its business. We kill the siren at the last cross street; the echo hangs two blocks longer before slipping into a quiet that has teeth.

We step into the cool spill of streetlights. The engine's fan kicks on with a mechanical sigh; somewhere, a wind chime tries to play a lullaby over a scene that is decidedly not lullaby material. Front lawn sprinklers have conspired to mist everything with that damp-summer smell: wet asphalt, cut grass, adrenaline.

He's already there—turnout coat open, helmet pushed back just enough for rebellious hair to stick out, jaw set like the night picked a fight with him. Heat radiates off Kai Hart. Some of it is the bunker coat. Most of it is Kai Hart being a space heater and a bad idea that knows it's a bad idea.

"You're late," he says, like the ambulance didn't beat them by thirty seconds.

"Traffic," I deadpan, popping the side door. "And I had to stop for a smoothie."

He gives me that look—equal parts I can't believe you exist and I'd follow you into a burning building. His mouth doesn't smile, but the corner of his mouth thinks about it.

Our patient, Mr. Doyle—grumpy, flannel pajama pants, bathrobe that's seen wars—is on his porch steps complaining about "heart thumps" and "kids these days." He's sixty-eight going on ninety and blessed with the volume of a parade marshal. Janelle checks vitals; Josh brings the tablet. Mr. Doyle's terrier, Marshmallow, is going absolutely feral on Kai's boots like the boots insulted his lineage.

"Sir, we're gonna get you checked out," I say, guiding him toward the stretcher. "Any pain? Shortness of breath?"

"Just the thumps," he says, patting his chest. "And that mutt's got it out for his ankles."

Marshmallow barks exactly like a squeaky toy, losing hope. Kai leans a hip against the open ambulance door like a centerfold for Incident Command: Smug Edition, and Marshmallow escalates from "wildly suspicious" to "tiny sheriff."

I pass Kai the supply bag, resisting the urge to say fetch. "Careful, Captain. Wouldn't want you pulling a muscle before your whipped-cream photo shoot."

His side-eye could cauterize. "Keep talking, Sinclair. I'll make sure the can's expired."

"Please," I say, snapping gloves. "You're the type to buy the fancy stuff and monogram the nozzle."

He smirks, and for one beat I can see the slideshow his brain just queued up—and not in the way I meant.

His shoulder brushes mine when he shifts, and I swear my brain short-circuits for half a second. His radio hisses, then surrenders to static. Somewhere across the street, a porch creaks; a neighbor in a bathrobe is watching like this is free cable.

We get Mr. Doyle settled on the stretcher. Janelle hands me a four-lead; I start snapping stickers onto a chest that looks like it's seen exactly one sunscreen in its lifetime, and that was by accident in 1993.

"You're awfully quiet, Hart," I say, catching Kai's reflection in the rig window as he pretends to be helpful. "Strategizing for the Games?"

"Thinking about how to make the whipped cream stick," he murmurs, pitched just for me.

My pulse skips. "If you lose, it's Reddi-wip. None of that bargain-bin foam sadness."

"Good to know you've thought about it."

"Are you two done flirting?" Mr. Doyle asks loudly, deadpan as a tombstone. "Because my heart did a tap dance, and I'd like to know if I'm dying or if it's just gas."

"Portable EKG coming to you like DoorDash," I say, smoothing the last lead. "Rate's a little irregular, no fireworks. We'll take you in to be safe."

He squints past me at Kai. "Are you the boy on the calendar?"

Kai blinks. "Sir?"

"The kid with the arms. I painted your picture in watercolor class. Rose from church bought it—keeps it by her treadmill for motivation."

Janelle converts a laugh into a cough. Josh scuffs his shoe like a malfunctioning clown horn. I mentally lie down on the sidewalk.

Kai lowers his voice so his crew won't hear. "If you lose the Games, I'm making you wear an inflatable T. rex costume the whole shift."

"Fine." I keep my face serious. "If you lose, you're posing for the calendar. Shirtless. Covered in pressurized dairy."

Mr. Doyle perks, alive with interest. "Do what now?"

"Sir," I say brightly, "tell me about the thumps."

We roll the stretcher toward the rig. Marshmallow escorts us, suspicious of our wheels and deeply concerned about Kai's shins. The engine's headlights turn chrome to daylight. The neighborhood smells like last week's barbecue and wet leaves. Janelle hops into the rig and flips the monitor on; cold green numbers paint her face like a stage light.

Kai falls into step beside me like gravity is aggressively pro-firefighter tonight.

We're close—too close.

Two steps from the doors, my back hits the rig frame. He's there, in my space like he owns it, hand braced on the jamb near my head, and I can see every dark fleck in his eyes. The low roar of the engine drops to a dull ocean; wind chimes hush; the entire block collapses to three inches of air charged like a live wire.

"Still sure you're winning?" he asks, voice rough, jacket creaking as he shifts closer.

"Positive," I breathe. "And when you lose, I'm making that calendar shot my phone wallpaper."

His gaze dips—cheekbone, mouth, back to my eyes—and time thins when his mouth goes slow and dangerous. My God, he smells delicious. Whatever he's wearing should come with a warning label. Electricity hums between us. "Guess we'll see if you like the taste of whipped cream as much as you talk about it."

His mouth curves dangerously into a cocky grin. "Not sure if that's punishment for me... or for you."

I arch a brow. "Don't flatter yourself, Hart. I'm thinking 'dignity homicide,' not dessert fantasy."

His grin widens like he's already picturing both. And I instantly regret saying dessert fantasy out loud.

Before I can come up with something equally lethal, the captain calls for him from the curb. Kai doesn't move. His eyes are still on mine, that unspoken just try me hanging between us like a live wire.

I should look away. I don't.

He's close enough now that I can smell the faint mix of smoke and whatever soap he uses, the kind that somehow smells like cedar and sin. My pulse stutters. His gaze dips to my mouth, and for a split second, the entire world shrinks down to the space between us—one breath, one decision—

The radio squawks so loud the night flinches. "Unit Four, respond—"

We both do, too. I swear he's about to throw it out the window. He closes his eyes for one murderous beat.

"Unit Three, clear to return to station," the speaker crackles, unhelpfully oblivious to homicide plans.

We step apart like spotlights snapped on. Across the street, Nguyen is absolutely not watching while absolutely watching, arms folded, smirk locked and loaded for tomorrow's gossip. Janelle palpates Mr. Doyle's wrist with saintly focus and less saintly eavesdropping.

Kai recovers first, tugging his helmet like it's a lid on a pot about to boil over. "We'll finish that later, Sinclair."

I roll my eyes to hide the way my knees just drafted a resignation letter. "In your dreams, Hart."

"Nightly," he tosses, a sin with teeth.

We load Mr. Doyle. Wheels thump into the floor locks; the rig sways. Antiseptic swallows the damp-night smell. Mr. Doyle watches us like we're a limited series he doesn't want to binge too fast.

"You kids want me to close my eyes?" he asks, utterly serious.

"Please don't," I say, tapping the EKG paper feed. "I need you to keep them open and tell me if the tightness comes back."

"Fine," he sighs. "But if the firefighter wants to hold your hand, I won't tell."

I bluescreen. "Vitals stable," I announce to absolutely no one, which is not an answer but passes for English.

Kai taps the door twice—crew code for good to go—and steps back. Night air rolls around him. The engine's headlights cast him as something ridiculous, mythic, and deeply inconvenient to my sanity.

"Hey, Sunshine," he says softly, just for me. "Don't forget—twenty-four hours. Anything I say."

"Keep dreaming," I say, because oxygen is apparently optional. "I'll bring the Reddi-wip."

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head. The tiny victory that glows in my ribs is a problem for Future Me.

We roll. Mr. Doyle lectures me about the price of eggs and how no one carries a proper handkerchief anymore; Janelle pretends to take notes on both. I keep my eyes on the monitor and absolutely do not think about a firefighter whose soap smells like sins I don't have time for.

The ER bay greets us with fluorescent indifference. We hand off to a nurse who has seen empires rise and fall and is unmoved by my face doing gymnastics. Mr. Doyle pats my wrist. "Get him, kid," he whispers, as if I'm not already plotting a legal homicide via dessert.

On the way back, the town has quietened into cricket o'clock. Janelle drives. I worry about the edge of the run sheet until the paper frays.

"You're doomed," she says, cheerful as a sunrise.

"Professionally or emotionally?" I ask.

"Yes," she says.

We pass O'Malley's—dark now, chairs upturned, the ghost of last night's cheering stuck in the neon like a memory with fries. The station's red doors glow ahead like a dragon's mouth; we keep insisting it's house-trained.

The engine beats us by a minute. Crew spills out, loud and easy, the way people are when a call goes right. Kai peels off his helmet, drags a hand through his hair, and looks over like being looked at is part of his job description.

"Good handoff?" he asks, too casual.

"Patient stable," I say. "No thanks to the peanut gallery."

"Marshmallow started it," he says solemnly.

"Marshmallow ended it. He stared into your soul and found it lacking."

He laughs, brief, honest, and something warm arcs through my ribs like a spark finally found kindling. I hate it. I might also like it. Both can be true, which is deeply inconvenient.

We unload, restock, and do the paperwork dance you perform to appease the billing gods. The bay smells like reheated coffee and rubber hose. Someone left a half-completed crossword; someone else vandalized the clues into filth. Family, but chaotic.

Kai drifts past on his way to the gear room. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't need to. The air changes temperature when he's near; my body keeps pretending that's useful data.

"Hey, Sinclair," he says without slowing.

"What?"

"You missed a spot." He taps his own cheekbone.

I swipe the wrong side.

"Other cheek," he says, amused.

I scrub my face with the heel of my hand and come away with a streak of monitor paper dust. Fabulous.

He grins. "War paint still looks good on you."

"Save the compliments for your calendar," I say crisply. "When you lose, I'll pose you like a sundae and call it art."

He walks backward a step, laughing. "You keep saying 'when I win,' like it's adorable."

"Keep saying 'adorable,' like it's not a cry for help."

We're grinning like idiots. It's...a problem.

He tips two fingers in a lazy salute and disappears into the gear room, all long lines, and swagger he thinks he doesn't have. The door swings shut. The bay hums. Janelle appears with a protein bar and the authority of a school nurse. "Hydrate your feelings."

I bite into the bar. It tastes like sawdust and moral support.

Josh pops his head around the rig doors, brandishing his phone like a trophy. "The Doyle call is already a meme in the group chat."

I freeze. "We didn't do anything memeable."

"Disagree." He zooms in on a blurry photo from across the street: me and Kai bracketed in the rig doorway, his hand on the frame over my head, my face tilted up, both of us in that pre-radio squawk suspended animation. Nguyen has captioned it: Tension so thick even the EKG couldn't interpret it.

Janelle snorts. "Frame it."

"Delete it," I say.

Josh pockets his phone. "Absolutely not."

I open the fridge to grab a water and see it: a can of Reddi-wip with a strip of masking tape across the middle, my Sharpie handwriting loud and proud.

PROPERTY OF VIOLET — DO NOT TOUCH.

I laugh so hard I have to brace a hand on the door, forehead against the stainless steel.

"Manifesting?" Janelle asks dryly.

"Evidence," I correct. "For when he loses."

"Ambitious," Josh calls, already wandering away in search of snacks.

I scrub a palm over my face and tell myself the truth: I'm captain of EMS and a respectable adult, not a woman currently having a war with a firefighter's mouth while discussing aerosolized dairy.

I tell myself a lot of things.

I don't tell myself the thing that lives under all the other things—that the line we keep hovering over is getting thinner every time the night cuts this quiet and he ends up exactly where I am.

From the gear room, Kai's laugh carries—a single warm strike of sound that hooks me like a song I pretend I don't like. I flip the Reddi-wip upright in the door, turn the label out so no one can claim ignorance, and shut the fridge.

"Friday's going to be biblical," Janelle says, bumping my shoulder with hers.

"I'm writing Revelations," I say.

"Bring extra ink," she says, and tosses me a bottle of water.

I crack it, drink, and let the afterimage of a dark bay door, a braced hand, and a squawked-to-hell moment flicker behind my eyes.

Friday can't come fast enough.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞