Worth the Fight (Worth It #2)

Chapter One Heat of the Moment

Chapter One

Heat of the Moment

Worthbridge Fire Station had sweat, smoke, and male bravado soaked into the walls.

Which suited Reece fine.

“Come on, boss. Any slower, I’ll have time to make the tea between punches.”

“Shut it, Morgan.” Crew Manager Ben Miller huffed, swiping his gloved fist through the air and missing by a country mile. “I’m going easy on you. Didn’t want to ruin the face you rely on for getting laid.”

“Not my face they want.” Reece smirked, ducked left, and tapped a neat jab to Miller’s ribs, sending the bigger man stumbling back two steps. “And that’s rich, coming from someone built like a fridge and fights like a tumble dryer.”

Laughter echoed around the makeshift gym set up in the back of the apparatus bay.

Weights stacked near lockers, a half-deflated Swiss ball lurked by the corner, and a sparring mat rolled out beneath their boots.

The punchbag had seen better days, stitched and duct-taped like some Frankenstein’s monster, and the sound system was blasting out old-school garage, the station manager trying to resurrect his glory days from the early noughties.

Reece bounced on the balls of his feet, muscle vest damp with sweat and clinging to every line of his muscular torso.

He wore it for one reason: to show off the ink.

And his body. Not that Ben Miller, his direct supervisor, gave a toss.

Poor bloke had a wife and three daughters who’d probably string Reece up for sending their man home looking as if he’d swallowed a wasp.

But Reece liked his ink and worked hard for his body.

And more than a few of the blokes down The Lighthouse , Worthbridge’s favourite gay haunt and his personal release valve when the pressure built too high, appreciated it.

He feigned a left. Miller flinched. Reece grinned.

“Jesus, Reece,” Stephanie, the station’s lone female among a sea of male posturing, called from the sidelines, stripping off her gear after drills. “Save some ego for the shift, yeah?”

“Can’t. It’s all I’ve got left now. I’m thirty-five and single.”

“Can’t imagine why.” Steph rolled her eyes.

Reece didn’t miss a beat, and he dodged another swing, then cuffed Miller on the ear. “Some of us are picky.”

“And some of us get caught chatting up uni girls during their kitchen fire last week.” Ahmed, their watch manager, entered with a clipboard and no patience. “Wrap it up. We’ve got gear checks in ten.”

“Tell the girls to stop sliding into my DMs, then,” Reece shot back, peeling off his gloves.

Standard banter. That’s all it was. Let them say what they liked.

Playboy, flirt, a walking HR complaint in a half-zipped turnout jacket.

It kept things simple. Easy. He could let off steam from the day job…

or night job, when the flames didn’t wait for daylight.

And if anyone asked, that wasn’t smoke rising off his skin, it was the heat he carried everywhere he went.

But everyone knew it was mostly the girls doing the chasing these days.

And yeah, he flipped the coin when the mood struck, but if his crewmates thought he was hanging around uni halls or flirting with anyone still living off instant noodles and TikTok trends, they could think again.

Because with women, he liked them older.

Experienced. Knew what they wanted and didn’t mind telling him where to go if he got cheeky.

And men… well. He’d had his share. Enough to know his type and enough sense to pretend he didn’t.

Because that was easier, wasn’t it? Safer.

No strings, no drama. Just a few laughs, a few drinks, and if the night got hot enough, a name he’d forget by morning.

Better that than wanting the one bloke who never stayed long enough to be anything more.

And Christ, wasn’t that the story of his life?

He caught Miller’s shoulder and gave him a slap. “Good round. You nearly tickled me.”

Miller flipped him the bird.

Reece dragged a towel across his face, the sweat cooling fast, then tipped back a swig from his dented water bottle.

The station wasn’t much. Peeling paint, buzzing lights in the locker room, but it was home.

He’d worked here for over ten years, so long that he’d scrawled his name on gear, tools and even the dartboard in the rec room to claim some authority.

Cause he wasn’t climbing any ladders that didn’t lead to a burning roof.

Command never interested him. Let someone else chase promotions and paperwork.

Reece led when it counted. On the ground, in the heat, when decisions were life or death.

He had no time for titles or the politics that came with them.

Watch Manager? Not a chance. He’d rather be the one kicking down the door than the one signing off the risk assessment that allowed them to do so.

So this place? Suited him perfectly. Faded red brick held together by history and habit, peeling paint in the showers no one bothered to fix, a common room sofa with more stains than cushions, and a kettle that let out a banshee’s wail every time it boiled.

Rough around the edges. Worn in. But still standing. Still working.

Like him.

A voice crackled over the intercom before he could even drop the gloves.

“All crews. Fire call. Report of fire in residential block. Persons reported. Repeat: persons reported.”

One heartbeat. That’s all it took. Playtime was over.

Lads, joking like schoolboys, snapped straight into soldiers.

It always went like this. Gear thrown on, boots slammed into, trousers yanked up, braces snapped over shoulders, jackets shrugged into without hesitation.

The tension changed. Became taut. Focused.

Serious. Every one of them moving as if their next breath depended on it. Because somewhere, it might.

And this was Reece’s town. He wouldn’t watch it burn.

“Steph, Chris!” Ahmed had already pulled his helmet on. “You’re BA one with me. Reece, you’re BA two with Miller. Let’s move.”

Reece nodded, boots hitting the tarmac as they jogged for the appliance. His heart pounded. Not from adrenaline. Not yet.

It started when he heard the address.

Woodrow Crescent. That block had problems. Cheap construction. Cluttered stairwells. Old tenants and young single mums. Cladding. He’d turned up to enough minor incidents there. Reece knew the address too well .

He swung into the back of the engine, clipped in, checked the Breathing Apparatus set at his feet.

The harness tightened automatically, mask clipped to the side, air cylinder at the ready.

Over his shoulder, Steph ran through the rapid donning drill they’d all done a hundred times.

Reece could do this with his eyes closed.

The siren screamed. They rolled out.

Worthbridge’s tangled backstreets tore past the window as the engine’s tyres hissed over slick tarmac, spraying dirty water into the guttered hush of June heat.

Sirens howled ahead of them, scattering pigeons and slicing through the thick, salt-heavy air.

Outside the cab, the town streaked past in flashes of rust and weary blue with paint-chipped doors, bowed terrace roofs, and satellite dishes clinging like barnacles to walls long surrendered to the sea air.

It was the start of summer. And Worthbridge didn’t cope well in the summer.

The kids were nearing the end of term with sports days and outdoor fetes.

The pavements were full. Doors left open. Windows flung wide.

Which meant today there was more to burn.

“Report says smoke issuing from the second floor,” Miller called from the front. “Flat sixteen. Elderly female, possible mobility issues.”

“Understood.” Reece’s pulse climbed. This was the calm before the storm.

As they turned onto Woodrow Crescent, smoke curled up from the upper windows of a block of flats.

Thick and black, spiralling as if it had a mind of its own, clawing its way into the sky.

Residents spilled onto the pavement in dressing gowns and slippers, some barefoot, wide-eyed and shouting over each other, voices lost to the rising sirens .

The fire wasn’t only in the building. It was in the air. The tension. The waiting. And Worthbridge, however battered, brined, and barely holding together, might finally burn beyond saving.

Not on his watch.

“Morgan, you’re with me.” Miller pointed at him. “BA entry through the stairwell second floor.”

“Yes, boss!”

“Steph! Grab the hydrant. Chris, set into the dry riser. You’re on the branch. Let’s move!”

They were at the door in seconds, full BA sets on, face masks sealed, comms checked.

“Ready on air.”

“BA Entry. Team Two, committed. Two in.”

They entered.

The stairwell was a tunnel of smoke where visibility dropped to a hand in front of the face.

Heat licked Reece’s gear. Not enough to be dangerous but promising it would get there soon.

So he and Miller climbed fast, avoiding the clutter on the landings.

A collapsed clothes horse. A child’s plastic ride-on car.

Some idiot had left rubbish bags in the corner again. They’d dealt with this block before.

“Flat sixteen,” Miller called through the comms.

Reece found the door and tensed. Smoke bled from the seams.

He braced himself, then drove his shoulder into the wood.

Once. Twice. The second hit splintered it, the frame groaning as it gave and smoke rolled out in greasy curls, swallowing his boots.

As his mask hissed with each breath, the regulator rhythm sharp in his ears, he flung up his torch, the beam cutting through the murk, and stepped inside.

Heat pressed in and Reece swept right, eyes focused as he tracked movement through the shifting black.

Then Miller said, “Paramedics on scene. ”

And Reece’s pulse spiked for a whole different reason.

“Tell them to hold at the cordon,” he called back, knowing full well one of them might attempt to break that safe zone.