Chapter Six Hot in Here
Chapter six
Hot in Here
Trent sagged into the sofa, face half-buried in a cushion wafting the scent of old fabric softener and something sadder, while the telly blasted out some mindless film he couldn’t be arsed to switch off.
Dev sat at the far end of the battered couch, cross-legged, scrolling endlessly through his phone. His thumb moved in hypnotic circles, the soft swish of it irritating enough to make Trent want to snap, but even that took more energy than he had.
It wasn’t the hangover. God, he wished it was.
Nor was it worrying about Jamie, either.
His brother was safe, dropped off at the community house, surrounded by people who actually knew how to care for him properly.
And it wasn’t even Dev’s latest lecture, casually tossed out over breakfast, about how maybe it was time Trent found someone interested in more than fucking and vanishing before dawn.
No.
This was comedown.
That ugly, hollow ache beneath his skin, the sharp edges of reality clawing their way back in now the chemical blur had worn off.
He kept darting his gaze towards his bedroom door, thoughts circling the little blister pack tucked in his bedside drawer.
Just one. That’s all it would take to smooth the edges off.
Not to get high. Not to float. But to… function .
They were painkillers. That’s all. And maybe— maybe —he was in pain.
Not the kind anyone could see, but wasn’t that the fucking point?
He ground his teeth.
Dev wouldn’t notice if he slipped away for a second. Popped one. Took the edge off this gnawing restlessness sitting like lead in his chest.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t give in.
Instead, he sat there, staring through the TV as if it was another part of the noise in his head. He barely registered Dev’s voice droning on about something from his feed, the words washing over him like static.
Until Dev stopped scrolling, his voice cutting sharper through the fog.
“There’s a fire,” Dev said, eyes fixed on his phone. “At a warehouse on South Dock Road. Looks bad.”
Trent glanced up over the telly .
South Dock Road.
Pills forgotten, the withdrawal hit. Icy panic settled into his bones as he lunged for his phone, sudden movement sending a sharp throb through his already aching head as he sat up straight.
His fingers trembled as he pulled up the local news app, the bold red banner already waiting at the top of the screen.
‘brEAKING: Suspected Arson at South Dock Road Warehouse. Firefighters still on scene. One crew member treated for injuries. No further details released.’
His stomach turned. The words blurred as he skimmed through the thin details, searching desperately for names, for any clue about who was on call. But there was nothing. Only the same useless soundbites: Investigation ongoing. Public not at risk. One firefighter treated on scene.
He swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry.
“You alright?” Dev asked, voice faint over the thudding in Trent’s temple.
“Yeah…” Trent didn’t look up, scrolling furiously through his phone, hoping the right piece of information might magically appear if he kept going.
Dev watched him for a long, unreadable moment before his brows drew together. “You know you’re allowed to say it, right?”
“Say what?”
“That you’re worried.” Dev paused, searching his face. “About him .”
Trent pushed a shaky hand through his hair. There wasn’t much point lying. “It’s his patch, yeah. But he’s probably not on shift. He was out last night, so chances are he’s on my rotation.”
“Mmm. But you can still say it.”
Trent shot to his feet before the words could stick. His chest felt too tight. The room too small. He paced towards the kitchen, biting his thumbnail as his other hand worked his phone, already pressing the call button for his base.
Dev stood, grabbing Trent’s arm as he passed. “Whoa, hang on. What are you doing?”
“Seeing if they need me.”
“You want to go in? On your day off? To a fucking fire ?”
Trent pulled free, pacing again as the call connected.
Two rings. Then the familiar, clipped voice of the control officer came through the line. “Ambulance despatch.”
“It’s Trent Lawson. Checking in. Heard about the warehouse fire. Do you need extra hands?”
There was a pause, some quiet typing in the background.
“Situation’s under control for now. Fire crews still mopping up. Casualty numbers are low. One firefighter treated on scene. We’ll call you if we’re stretched.”
Trent gripped the counter, relief and frustration battling in his chest. “Any idea who it was? The injured firefighter, I mean?”
Another pause. “Can’t say. No transfers logged through us.”
“Right. Okay. Thanks.”
Trent dropped the phone onto the counter and bowed his head, bracing his palms on the cool surface as if it might hold him up through sheer will alone.
What the hell was he doing?
Calling in like that… as if he was hoping to find Reece broken and bleeding so he could be the one to fix him.
So he could touch him under the guise of duty, lay hands on him without having to admit how much he wanted to.
And if he did? He’d probably say something cutting and defensive, poison the moment before it became anything real.
Then he’d go home and drown in the same sick, gnawing regret that never quite left him alone .
Because he was scared. That was the heart of it.
Terrified of falling for someone who might hurt him.
Through fault or fate. Reece wasn’t just a serial player; he lived his life in the line of fire.
Case in point, right then. And Trent had already lost too many people he loved.
The aftermath had changed everything. And he didn’t know if he could survive another blow.
He slapped the counter hard enough to sting.
“Right.” Dev was suddenly there, grabbing his arm and looping it through his own before Trent could bolt. “That’s it. I’m calling in the troops. We’re going out for some tapas.”
“No.” Trent shook his head and rubbed his temple, the familiar ache blooming behind his eyes. “No, look… I’m fine. I—” He blew out a shaky breath. “I’m gonna hit the gym. Run this off.”
Dev studied him for a long second, loosening his grip but his concern plain.
“Go run it off, babes. You know I’m working early tomorrow, so I’ll be off to bed soon.” He kissed Trent’s cheeks. “Don’t go running into fire, though.”
Trent swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. “I won’t.”
He was used to lying to himself.
Like he had that very first night.
Ten months ago…
The cliff rescue clung to him, no matter how many showers he’d taken since. Salt spray and panic, the cold bite of sea air mixed with the iron tang of blood, and the raw sound of screaming against the wind. It had sunk into his skin, wedged beneath his ribs .
It was his first real bad one. First major incident since qualifying.
At twenty-seven, he should’ve already had a dozen of these calls behind him. Most paramedics his age carried that look in their eyes. A quiet, hardened glaze of someone who’d seen too much. But Trent had come to it all late. And late to this .
He’d spent the night crouched on jagged stone, stabilising a boy who’d fallen off the cliff edge, chest barely rising, breath wet and shallow.
His gloves soaked through. Hands shaking by the time the airlift finally took over.
He should’ve gone home after. Slept. That’s what they all told him. Get rest. Switch off. Reset.
But he couldn’t. Couldn’t face the silence. Couldn’t lie in bed with nothing but the echo of shallow breathing and wide, terrified eyes replaying behind his own.
So he tried to outrun it.
The gym was the only place open at that hour.
A twenty-four-hour refuge lit in harsh fluorescents and always filled with others like him.
Frontline workers who couldn’t fit their lives neatly into daytime hours.
Nurses fresh off shift. Coppers trying to burn off whatever they’d seen.
Firefighters winding down from adrenaline highs.
Trent joined them.
He shoved in his headphones, cranked the volume to something loud and unforgiving, bass heavy and fast, and pounded away on the treadmill until his lungs burned and his legs were unsteady.
After forty minutes of running, then cross-training until his muscles screamed, he lifted a few sets of weights to remind himself he was still solid, still standing, but none of it was enough to quiet his thoughts.
He needed to sit. Breathe.
Stop .
The sauna called to him. A quiet, closed-in space within the men’s changing room where he could sweat the last of it out and maybe, if no one else was there, finally let it all crack open and fall apart for a bit.
The gym was practically empty now, the dead hour well and truly reached.
With any luck, he’d have the space to himself.
And if not, well, maybe whoever was in there wouldn’t care if he sat in the corner and cried to himself.
Maybe they wouldn’t notice.
So he made his way to the changing rooms, rinsed off the sweat and sea spray, then wrapped a towel around his waist and headed for the sauna at the end of the corridor.
He wasn’t looking for company. Only somewhere to breathe without the sound of sirens echoing in his skull.
But the moment he opened the door, the heat hit him like a fist. Thick, suffocating, and laced with something far more dangerous.
Because he wasn’t alone.
Someone was already inside, sprawled across the upper bench, a familiar figure wrapped in steam and shadows. And even if the room hadn’t been fogged with heat, Trent would’ve known him anywhere.
Reece Morgan .