It's supposed to be a "light" training session.

Which, in Kai Hart language, translates to: let's make Violet question all her life choices while he watches my form and pretends it's about safety.

The station's back lot has two moods on summer mornings: shimmering mirage and convection oven. Today it's both. Heat rises off the asphalt in lazy waves, carrying the smells of tire rubber, cut grass from the field beyond the fence, and the faint ghost of last night's chili someone absolutely should not have microwaved in a communal kitchen.

The drill is simple on paper: load the hose bundle, sprint twenty yards, hook it to the dummy hydrant, drag it back, and repeat until your lungs file for divorce. We've run it a hundred times. The only variable is the idiot with the clipboard.

Lucky me, that idiot is Kai.

He's leaning against the supply rack like he's posing for "Competent Aggravation Monthly"—forearms crossed, navy tee clinging in ways the town's watercolor class has probably commemorated. Sunglasses are hooked in his collar; his mouth has that lazy, knowing tilt that says he's already planning to get away with something.

"All right, Sinclair," he calls, projecting for the benefit of the mixed gallery: a few of my EMS crew—Janelle and Josh—plus a couple of firefighters—Nguyen and Davis—pretending to sort couplings while absolutely watching us like it's daytime TV. "Let's see what you've got."

I adjust my gloves, keeping my tone light. "You mean in terms of speed or personality?"

"Both," he says, strolling closer, clipboard hanging from two fingers. "But let's start with the part where you're not strolling through Target on a Sunday."

I roll my eyes and grab the nozzle. "Bold of you to assume I don't run in Target."

"That was my point," he deadpans. Then, softer, for only me: "Eyes up. Breathe. Don't overthink it."

It's annoying that his actual coaching voice—under the teasing—works.

I set, shoulders under the weight of the hose. The canvas scratches my bare forearms, warm from sitting in the sun. When I break into a sprint, the bundle thumps against my ribs; my boots grip, slide, grip. The world narrows to heat and rhythm and the metallic rattle of the couplings.

Halfway down, his voice reaches me. "Lower, Sinclair. You want to last longer, you gotta drop those hips."

My mouth twitches. "Do you talk to everyone like this, or am I special?"

"Special," he says, no hesitation. "Most people don't need quite this much... correction."

Hook, drag, breathe. On the return, I catch his reflection in the shiny side of the engine: he's tracking me like there's a test at the end and he plans to ace it. Or me. Same energy.

Second lap. Sweat beads along my hairline and slides down the column of my spine. The sun finds the one patch of skin at my neckline that forgot sunscreen and licks it like a threat. Kai sidelines me with the same voice he probably uses to talk rookies through structure fires.

"Faster. You can handle more than that."

"You always this encouraging?" I puff.

"Only when it works," he says. Then, wicked: "Don't hold your breath. I'll teach you how to let it out later."

"Threat or promise?"

His mouth curves. "Motivation."

By the third lap, he's found his groove—every helpful adjustment is smuggled contraband.

"Yeah, that's it—deeper bend in the knees."

"Hands closer together. I like the control that gives you."

"Long pull, Sinclair. Long. Put your back into it."

Somewhere behind us, Janelle stage-whispers, "Should I be taking notes?" and Josh mutters, "HR is going to combust," which, considering the company, feels on-brand.

I'm convinced this is less about fitness and more about seeing if he can make me trip over my own feet. So I decided to fight fire with fire.

Next round, when I bend to grab the hose, I make sure it's a very slow bend—legs straight, spine long, and my tank top shifting just enough to remind a certain captain that gravity exists. When I turn, he's still holding the clipboard... but not writing a thing.

"Lose something, Hart?" I ask sweetly.

His voice is a shade rougher. "Not yet."

The heat flares between us, quick and private, and vanishes when Nguyen claps a coupling together a little too loudly. Whatever. For the rest of the set, I gift Kai at least three more slow bends and one casual strap adjustment. Each time, there's a fractional catch in his breath, he probably thinks I can't hear.

We break for water. The jug sweats on the table; plastic cups stick to damp palms. Kai steps in beside me, close enough that his forearm brushes mine as he reaches for the ladle. The contact zips up my nerves like a lit fuse.

"You keep that up, Sinclair," he murmurs, angle of his body screening us from the peanut gallery, "and I'm gonna add ropes to your next drill."

I sip, coolness shocking some sense into me. "Promises, promises."

"Oh, not a promise." That mouth, that curve. "A guarantee."

My traitor pulse declares a state of emergency.

We reset cones. The engine ticks in the heat. Somewhere, a mockingbird tries out three different siren impressions in thirty seconds, which feels like a personal attack.

"Set the timer, Davis," Kai calls. "Sinclair's going for a PR."

Davis lifts his phone like he's emceeing a prize fight. "On your command."

I drop into position. Kai ghosts in at my shoulder. I can smell him—his tylical smoke-cedar and clean sweat, heat, and something sharper under it I refuse to name.

"On you," he says, low.

I take off.

Halfway down, he steps into my path, walking backward in front of me like he doesn't believe in sprained ankles. He keeps pace easily, infuriatingly, grin edged with challenge.

"Bend those knees, Violet. You know I like it deeper."

"File a preference form," I gasp. "I'll lose it."

"Faster—you're almost making me sweat."

I snort, lungs burning. "Pretty sure that's illegal."

"Only if I admit it."

Hook, drag, haul. He glides at my side, a living metronome who won't shut up.

"C'mon, Sinclair, make me proud."

"Ugh," I say. "Brutal."

"You love it."

I do. I hate that I do. I hate that I love that I do. We contain multitudes; mine are all inconvenient.

Two more rounds like that. The crew migrates for better viewing. Davis announces my split times like he's calling a horse race. Janelle and Josh start whisper-betting in protein bars. Someone's dog, whose name tag says Beans, pants happily in the shade and contributes nothing but moral support.

Between reps, Kai gestures to my stance. The gesture is decent. The proximity is not.

"Drop your center earlier. Don't fight the hose; let it roll you."

"If I let it roll me, it'll dump me."

"Then I'll catch you," he says, as if that solves most things. Maybe it does.

I arch a brow. "Is that in the manual?"

"It is now."

On the next start, he's closer. Too close. His shadow folds over mine, cool for half a heartbeat, hot the next.

"One more," he says quietly enough that it doesn't travel past my ear. "Beat your best time, and I'll quit with the coach voice. Lose... and I pick the next drill."

"What's the next drill?" Suspicion is healthy.

He smiles slowly, everything dangerous in him distilling to a single look. "Something that'll definitely leave you... tied up."

My grip slips on the nozzle. He notices. Of course, he notices.

"Scared?" he asks.

"Of you?" I tip my chin. "Please."

"All right then, Sunshine," he murmurs. "Show me."

I explode off the line like it matters for more than pride. The world tightens: cone, hydrant, clamp, turn, haul. I hear his stride fall in a half-step behind me—the whisper of boots on cooked asphalt, the rush of his breath, steady and confident and right at my back like a promise.

"Lower, Violet," he says at the turn. "Just like that."

The way just like that unfurls down my spine should be illegal in at least fourteen states. My focus flickers. My toe catches a seam in the pavement. The hose yanks; my balance ghosts.

Before gravity can make a scene, his hand clamps around my upper arm, warm and strong, stopping me with a jolt that lights every nerve. We steady together in a small, private pocket of stillness while the rest of the lot keeps moving—timer beeping, someone clapping, Beans yawning like a traitor.

"Got you," he says, voice rougher than a second ago.

We're too close. I can count the flecks of gold in his eyes. I can also count the beats until I do something catastrophically unprofessional.

I shrug out of his grip and step back hard enough to feel the absence like a draft. "Don't get cocky, Captain."

"Too late." His mouth does that infuriating thing again. "Guess that means I'm picking."

I glare, but mostly to cover the heat climbing the back of my neck. "You only won because you play dirty."

He tips the clipboard at me. "Exactly."

"Wow," Josh calls helpfully from the sidelines, "the sexual tension is palpable! I could triage it."

"Shut it," I say, without looking away from Kai.

"HR is canceled," Janelle adds. "We live like pirates now."

Davis lifts his phone. "Time was good, Sinclair. Not PR, but close."

"Run it back," I say, still watching the man who just turned oxygen into foreplay.

Kai's brow ticks. "You sure you want to give me more opportunities to be... motivating?"

"You're insufferable."

"You're stalling."

He's right. I hate him.

We reset. The hose is heavier now, like it's absorbing my stubbornness. My palms have that clean ache that says I'll remember this grip later when I'm washing shampoo out of my hair and not thinking about him.

"Form tweak," he says, voice back to helpful with knives. He steps behind me and taps two fingers just above my hip crest—not quite a touch, not quite not. "Hinge earlier. You'll feel the weight shift sooner."

"I swear to God," I mutter, but I do it, and I feel the shift, and I hate that he's right again.

"Good girl," he says under his breath, automatic, like a coach.

Electricity detonates from my stomach outward. I go perfectly, murderously still.

He realizes what he's said exactly half a second after I do. His mouth opens; he inhales like he might take it back. I beat him to it.

"Say that again," I tell him softly, dangerously, "and I'll make you run this drill in the T. rex suit."

His ears are pink. "Noted."

We run two more. He behaves—for Kai values of behaving—which is to say he edits the filth out of his mouth but somehow makes nice worse.

"Breathe for me."

"Perfect—don't change a thing."

"Stay with it. You're right there."

I am. I hate it. I love it. I'm going to spontaneously combust.

We call a second water break. The jug is now half ice, half salvation. I tilt my cup and let a sheet of cold slide over the back of my neck. The shock resets my brain for ten seconds. Maybe nine.

Kai drifts in again like the tide. We stand shoulder to shoulder, not touching, then touching anyway. His forearm is dotted with dark hairs turned gold in the sun. A freckle at his wrist winks when he flexes his hand. I catalog details I have no business cataloging.

He lowers his voice. "You're a menace."

"To your patience?" I ask.

"To my self-control."

Something traitorous leaps in my chest. I swallow it with lukewarm water and professional malice. "Poor you."

"Tragic," he agrees. "How am I supposed to keep you safe if you keep trying to kill me?"

"That's my line," I say. "You're the risk-taker."

He nudges my shoulder with his, casual, not casual. "Maybe you're catching."

"Like a disease?"

"Like a habit."

I hate how much I like the idea of being his habit.

"Okay!" Davis claps, oblivious savior. "Final block. Then showers, then real food that isn't protein bricks."

Josh raises a hand. "On a scale of one to 'we need a hose,' how much cold water do we have to throw on Violet when this ends?"

Janelle doesn't look up from her stopwatch. "It's August. We'll just leave her outside."

"Burn in hell," I say pleasantly.

"Already here," she sings back.

We're set for the last series. The sun edges toward noon; the shadow of the engine shrinks, stealing relief. My thighs hum. My hands are going to be one big blister tomorrow, and I'm going to tell everyone it was worth it because I'm a liar with pride issues.

Kai moves to my side again, all heat and quiet focus. "Last ones best ones," he says. "Give me clean and mean."

"Stop flirting with me," I say.

"I'm literally begging you to hydrate," he says, amused. "Focus, Sinclair."

We go. He doesn't crowd me this time. He paces me instead, just to the right, just far enough I can feel him without having to inventory his mouth. His presence turns the air into an electric fence; I run alongside it, high and crackling and a little afraid I'm going to touch it just to see.

Turn, hook, drag. He doesn't speak until the final ten feet.

"Now," he says, low. "Empty the tank."

I do. The world whites out to breath and grit and the line painted on the asphalt. When my boot hits it, Davis yells, the stopwatch chirps, and I nearly fold. Kai's hand is there a fraction before I actually do, firm at my elbow, a grounded point in a spinning image.

I look up and meet his eyes because I'm a problem with legs. He's already looking at me. The corner of his mouth tips like he's sharing the joke we've both been pretending isn't funny.

He glances at Davis. "Time?"

Davis tilts the screen. "Missed it by four tenths."

The world unblanks. My stomach drops. Four tenths is nothing. Four-tenths is an eyelash. Four tenths is a lifetime.

Kai's eyes flick back to me. He doesn't gloat. That might be worse.

"Good run," he says. Then, softer, meant only for my bones, "So good."

I swallow pride shaped like glass. "Say it," I tell him, chin up. "Go ahead."

He doesn't take the bait. He takes my cup, refills it, and hands it back, as if I hadn't just threatened to T. rex him in public. "Hydrate."

I should punch him. I sip instead. It's awful.

He tips the clipboard like a judge banging a gavel. "All right, Sinclair. Since I'm picking the next drill..."

Groans from the crew. A dramatic gasp from Josh. Beans sneezes.

"...you're on ladder carries after lunch," he finishes. "Four evolutions. And—" the smile turns criminal "—I'll be your spotter."

"Of course you will," I say, because what else is left? "Any other torture you'd like to schedule while you're drunk with power?"

His eyes gleam. "Plenty. But I'm a patient man."

"Lies." I peel off one glove, flex my sticky fingers. "You're a menace."

"To your patience?" he returns my earlier jab.

"To my sanity," I mutter.

We break it down. Cones stack. Hose coils into obedient circles. The lot smells like hot rubber and victory and the kind of trouble you write poems about and then pretend you didn't. Davis and Nguyen wander inside debating whether a burrito counts as a vegetable (it does not), Josh is recounting my almost-PR like a sportscaster, and Janelle bumps my hip with hers on her way past.

"You're doomed," she says cheerfully.

"Professionally or personally?"

"Yes," she sings, and disappears.

I take one last look at the painted line, at the place my foot missed its destiny by four-tenths of a second, and then at Kai, who's watching me like I'm a fire he's not sure he wants to put out.

"Enjoy your victory lap, Captain," I call, heading for the bay doors.

He falls into step, easy. "Oh, Sunshine," he says, amused and a little fond, and it is dangerous that I can hear the difference, "this wasn't the lap."

I glance up. "No?"

He shakes his head, that grin back, sharp and bright. "Just the warm-up."

My pulse does something reckless that I am absolutely going to blame on the heat. I toss my empty cup in the bin, shoulder the door open with my hip, and shoot back over my shoulder, "Careful, Hart. You keep talking like that, and I'll make you eat your words."

"Already plan to," he says, too fast, too easy, and then winks like he didn't just say a thing I'll remember later in the shower when I pretend to think about nothing at all.

"Ropes after lunch," he calls as I disappear into the cooler dim. "Don't be late."

"Bring your clipboard," I call back. "I'll give you something to write."

I hope you enjoyed the chapter!! 🤞🤞