The Flames Between Us (Cedar Falls: Fire Department #2)

Chapter 1 - Ollis

I hate being benched.

That's what this feels like—being sidelined while everyone else runs into the flames. The alarm blares through the station, and I'm on my feet with the rest of them, muscle memory taking over as I suit up. But I already know how this will play out.

"Warehouse fire on Elmwood," Chief Brock shouts, his voice carrying over the organized chaos. "Lewis, Grant, you're on point. Max, you're on the truck."

No assignment for me. It doesn't need to be said out loud. I'll drive the second truck, help with the perimeter, and maybe man the hoses. But I won't be going in.

"Ollis," Brock catches my eye as the others rush past. "You know the drill."

I nod curtly, swallowing the protest that rises in my throat. It's been eight weeks since I froze at the doorway of the Pineridge apartment complex, since I felt the heat of the flames and saw not the actual hallway before me but the memory of another fire, another victim, another failure.

The trucks scream through the streets of Cedar Falls, sirens cutting through the crisp autumn air. Fall used to be my favorite season. Now it just reminds me of that night two months ago when the Henderson house went up, and I couldn't reach the old man in time.

At the warehouse, I take my position, setting up the exterior hoses while Lewis and Grant disappear into the smoke-filled building. This is what I've been reduced to—watching the action from the outside, like some civilian spectator instead of a fifteen-year veteran.

"South entrance secured," I report into the radio. My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"Copy that," Brock responds. He doesn't say more, but I can hear what he's thinking. That I'm wasting my talent. That I need to get my head straight.

The fire takes three hours to contain. No casualties, thank God, but the warehouse is a total loss. Back at the station, the adrenaline high fades into the familiar post-call routine—cleaning equipment, filing reports, the good-natured ribbing that's always been part of firehouse culture.

"Nice work with that hose, Ollis," Max says, punching my shoulder lightly as he passes. "Almost took us out with the pressure."

I manage a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. “Y’all need to stay on your toes."

Max pauses, staring at me for a moment too long. He's different since Jennie came into his life, more observant. "You good, man?"

"Fine," I answer automatically. The standard response. The lie we all tell.

He nods, not convinced but smart enough not to push. That's the thing about firehouses—everyone knows everything, but we all pretend certain topics are off-limits. My breakdown is the elephant in every room I enter.

I'm finishing my report when Brock appears in the doorway of the small office I've retreated to. The chief has a way of filling a room just by standing in it—thirty years of command presence doesn't fade even in civilian clothes.

"My office," he says simply. Not a request.

I follow him down the hall, past the common area where Lewis and Grant are arguing about some basketball game.

Brock closes the door behind us and settles into his chair. The office is spartan—a few commendations on the wall, a photo of his old military unit, a desk that's seen better days.

"It's been eight weeks, Ollis."

I stare at a point just over his left shoulder. "I'm aware of the timeline, Chief."

"You're one of the best firefighters I've ever worked with." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "But this can't continue. You're not serving yourself or this team by staying in limbo."

"I'm doing my job," I protest, but the words sound weak even to me.

"Part of your job. I need you all in or all out." His voice softens a fraction. "Look, I get it. Henderson wasn't your fault—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "Just... don't."

Brock sighs, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. "I've arranged for you to see someone."

"A shrink?" I can't keep the disdain from my voice. "With all due respect, Chief, I don't need some head doctor asking how I feel about my mother."

"She's a trauma specialist. Works with first responders." He slides a card across the desk. "Dr. Everly Morgan. Your first appointment is tomorrow at two."

I stare at the card but don't pick it up. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I have to make some hard decisions about your future with this department." There's no malice in his tone, just the weight of command. "You've used up all your personal leave. Workers' comp only stretches so far for psychological issues."

The unspoken ultimatum hangs between us. See the shrink or clean out my locker.

"This isn't a punishment, Ollis," Brock continues. "It's me trying to save the career of a damn good firefighter."

I finally take the card, the embossed lettering catching the light. Dr. Everly Morgan, PhD. Trauma and Resilience Specialist.

"One session," I concede, though we both know it's not a negotiation. "But I'm not promising anything."

"Just show up and be honest. That's all I'm asking." Brock stands, signaling the end of our conversation. "And Ollis? She's good at what she does. Give her a chance."

I pocket the card and leave without another word, anger and humiliation burning in my gut. Fifteen years of running into burning buildings, of saving lives, of being the guy everyone could count on—and now I'm being sent to have my head examined like some fragile thing that's broken.

My shift ends at 6 PM, and I drive home in silence, the radio off. My house is on the outskirts of Cedar Falls, a small ranch-style place I bought five years ago. Nothing fancy, but it's mine. No wife to explain myself to. No kids to put on a brave face for. Just me and the ghosts I bring home with me.

I toss my keys on the counter and grab a beer from the fridge, popping the cap against the edge of the countertop. The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of my neighbor's dog barking. I should eat something, but the thought of food turns my stomach. Instead, I take my beer to the back deck and stare out at the treeline behind my property.

My phone buzzes with a text from my brother. Lewis is five years younger but seems decades ahead in having his life together.

*You ok? Heard Brock pulled you in.*

I type back: *All good. Just the usual check-in.*

Another lie to add to the collection. The truth is, I haven't been "all good" since I watched Harold Henderson disappear under a collapsing ceiling beam while I stood frozen in the doorway, paralyzed by the memory of another fire, another failure.

The moon is nearly full tonight, casting long shadows across the yard. I used to find peace in these quiet moments. Now they just give my mind too much space to wander back to that night. To Henderson's face at the window. To the sound of timber cracking. To the paralysis that took over my body when I needed to move most.

I drain the beer and head inside, straight to the shower where I stand under water hot enough to scald until my skin turns red. Sleep doesn't come easy these days, but physical exhaustion helps. I stretch out on my bed and stare at the ceiling, Dr. Morgan's card on the nightstand catching the dim light from the window.

The Next Day

Morning comes too soon. I go for a run, pushing myself harder than usual as if I could somehow outpace the appointment looming in the afternoon. Back home, I kill time with meaningless chores—mowing the lawn, fixing a leaky faucet, reorganizing tools I haven't touched in months.

At 1:30, I finally force myself into my truck. The drive to Dr. Morgan's office downtown takes fifteen minutes, but I circle the block twice before finding a parking spot. Then I sit, engine off, debating whether I should just call Brock and tell him I'm done. Hand in my resignation and find something else to do with my life.

But firefighting is all I know. All I've ever wanted to do since I was ten years old, and a crew of heroes pulled my dog from our burning garage.

At 1:58, I finally make myself walk through the door and up to the second floor. The waiting area is exactly as I expected—plants, soft lighting, furniture that looks more stylish than comfortable. A young man at the reception desk glances up with a practiced smile.

"Can I help you?"

"Ollis Crawford. I have an appointment with Dr. Morgan." The words taste like ash in my mouth.

"Of course. She's just finishing up with another client. Please have a seat. Can I offer you water or tea?"

I decline and take the chair farthest from the door, instantly calculating the exit routes out of habit. The waiting room has those mindless magazines no one actually reads and a white noise machine humming softly in the corner. I check my watch every thirty seconds, wondering how long I need to sit here before I can tell Brock I tried.

At 2:07, a door opens and a woman emerges, wiping discreetly at her eyes. Behind her stands someone who must be Dr. Morgan, though she's nothing like the stern, middle-aged psychiatrist I was expecting.

She's younger than me by several years, with dark hair pulled back in a loose knot and glasses that frame eyes that miss nothing. Her figure is soft and curved beneath a simple burgundy dress and cardigan. There's no clipboard, no clinical white coat—nothing that screams "I'm here to dissect your trauma."

"Mr. Crawford?" Her voice is low and melodic, with the slightest hint of an accent I can't place. "I'm Dr. Morgan. Please come in."

I stand, suddenly awkward in my own skin, aware of my height and bulk in this delicate space. As I approach, I notice she's shorter than I initially thought, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder.

She steps aside to let me enter her office, and I catch a faint scent of something citrusy and warm—not the antiseptic smell I associate with doctors' offices.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," she says, gesturing to a small seating area by the window.

I take the chair that most likely supports my frame without complaint and watch as she settles into the one across from me. There's no desk between us, no barrier: just two chairs and the weight of everything I don't want to say hanging in the air.

Dr. Morgan stares at me for a moment, her expression giving away nothing. Then she smiles—not the fake, professional smile I was braced for, but something genuine that reaches her eyes.

"So, Ollis," she says, my name sounding different in her mouth. "Chief Brock tells me you're here under protest. Why don't we start there?"