Chapter Fourteen Too Hot to Handle #2
Dev hesitated, visibly bracing, before he added, “And I wish—God, I wish —this was just gossip. That no one’s actually seen him with anyone else since you two started…
whatever this is. But, shit, babes… I saw him.
At the hotel. And worse?” Dev shook his head, his expression shifting close to pity.
“He didn’t even recognise me this morning.
That’s how little you, and any of this, registers once he’s walked out that door. ”
Dev stepped back with a sigh, reclaiming his coffee as if the conversation had drained the life right out of him.
“So, here’s the plan,” he said, tone light but edged with something firmer beneath it.
“Drink your coffee. Go see your brother. Take a breath. Or fuck it, take a bloody tranquilliser if that’s what it takes to get your head straight.
But sort it out .” He pointed at Trent with his mug, eyes sharp despite the softness in his voice.
“Because this whole thing about you screwing up at work? Feels a lot less like a job problem and a whole lot more like a Reece problem. So, let’s handle that first, yeah? ”
* * * *
The second Reece clocked in at the station, he threw himself into the evening checks as if his life depended on it.
Gear first.
He crouched by his locker, inspecting every piece of kit.
Breathing apparatus—pressure tested. Helmet—visor clean, no cracks.
Gloves, flash hood, fire tunic—all checked for tears, every piece stowed just so.
His boots sat by the door, still damp from the last shift.
He shoved newspaper into them to draw out the moisture and moved on.
Around him, the crew filtered through their own checks with the usual quiet banter. Someone griped about overtime. Another laughed over a bad takeaway order. But Reece kept his head down, locked in his own bubble.
By seven-thirty, he was out in the appliance bay alone.
The others had already drifted off to the mess, the low thrum of their voices barely audible through the thick doors. Reece stayed behind, working his way over the rig as if he could rebuild his own fractured thoughts one tool at a time.
He ran his hands over the pump ladder truck’s gleaming panels, the cold metal under his palms grounding him.
Checked hose reels and rolled them back with tight precision.
Tested the ladders for secure locks. Opened every compartment, trailing his fingers over the hydraulic cutters, spreaders, and Halligan bar as if their solid, familiar weight could anchor him to something real.
Still, his mind betrayed him.
Trent .
That kiss. Soft and trembling and real in a way that gutted him. The feel of Trent shaking beneath his hands, body folding into him as if he couldn’t hold himself together on his own.
Yeah, the sex had been incredible. No point lying to himself there. Filthy, desperate, as if they both needed to fuck the ghosts right out of their heads. Trent had matched him, move for move. They were made for this ruin. But somehow, even with all of that, it hadn’t been enough.
Because when it was over, Trent hadn’t wanted to talk.
Hadn’t wanted to face him. He’d crashed , curling in on himself and shutting the world out.
And Christ, Reece got it. He really did.
But that didn’t stop the guilt from grinding him down.
He should’ve been better. Stronger. Should’ve offered a shoulder to cry on, not a dick to ride.
Should’ve held the line instead of crossing it so spectacularly.
And when he couldn’t rouse Trent from sleep, couldn’t bring himself to do anything but watch him lying there looking too fucking fragile, he’d slipped out. Left to get ready for work, telling himself it was the right thing.
Then he’d seen the pills again.
Sitting there in the drawer like a silent fucking accusation.
And yeah, he took them. Every last packet. Invasion of privacy? Theft? Absolutely. Did he care? No. Because he’d seen too many lives destroyed by dependence and he couldn’t let that happen. Not to Trent.
But he didn’t know how to fix this. How to handle any of it.
All he knew was that he didn’t want Trent numb anymore. Not when there was still something left in him that could feel . Maybe that made him a selfish bastard. But if it kept Trent breathing long enough to figure out how to want something more…
Then he’d live with that.
Reece blew out a harsh breath and slammed the last compartment shut, the metal clang echoing through the empty bay.
Focus, Morgan. This is where you make sense. This is the one place that doesn’t fucking lie to you.
By eight, the duty rota was pinned and reviewed, radio checks logged and signed off, the appliance readiness report completed with his signature scrawled across the bottom.
Yet even then, he found himself at the back of the engine, bracing one hand on the cool metal, head bowed as if the truck could somehow hold up the weight he was too tired to carry.
Headlights cut through the gloom of the forecourt, sweeping across the open bay doors.
Reece straightened, wiping a hand over his face as a police car pulled up.
The car idled for a moment before the engine cut, and Freddie climbed out, uniform on, notebook already in hand, eyes scanning the empty bay before landing squarely on Reece.
Reece leant his back against the rig, crossing his arms.
“Well, shit,” he called out, a bitter smirk tugging at his mouth, though it didn’t come close to his eyes. “Didn’t see you this much when we were shagging.”
Freddie’s mouth twitched, halfway between amusement and exasperation, and he strode across the tarmac towards him.
“What can I say? Night shifts make me nostalgic for a good interrogation.” He flipped open his notebook.
“Need your version about the warehouse before CID start tripping over their own egos.”
Reece tipped his head back, eyes half-lidded, the tension in his chest coiled tight. The fire had been bad. But the burn of regret and confusion clawing at him since the night with Trent? That was worse. And it didn’t help that he had loved up Freddie here who knew all about his flaws in that area.
Freddie shifted his weight, balancing the notebook on his palm, pen poised. “Start from the top,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you saw. No opinions. Facts.”
Reece rolled his shoulders. “It burned fast . Too fucking fast. We barely got the shutter breached before the whole place was fully lit up. Flames were already punching through the mezzanine by the time we got water on it.”
Freddie frowned, pen moving quickly. “Mezzanine?”
“Steel platform, stock storage. That thing acted like a fucking chimney. Heat was venting straight through it, drawing the flames up fast. And the burn patterns?” He shook his head. “Clean. Too clean. Flashover hit us before we’d even advanced the line properly.”
Freddie glanced up, his brows drawing together. “Electrical fault?”
Reece gave a bitter laugh. “Not a chance. This wasn’t some dodgy socket and cardboard boxes. Fire moved like it had somewhere to be. Directed. Controlled. Told you, someone wanted that place gone.”
“Yeah, but we gotta stick to the facts to prove it. Where was the seat of the fire?”
“Rear loading dock. Right by the stock cages. Flammable materials stacked high. Paint thinners, cleaning chemicals, aerosol cans. Might as well have left a goddamn sign that said light me up .”
Freddie arched an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.
Reece caught the look and gave a bitter shake of his head.
“Yeah, yeah, stick to the facts. I know.” He crossed his arms. “But that mezzanine collapse? That wasn’t structural fatigue.
That was timed. Designed to go when it did.
If Miller had been a second slower getting out from under it…
We’d be having a very different conversation right now. ”
Freddie closed his notebook. “This is going straight to the Radley file, you know that?”
“Figured.” Reece cocked his head. “That why they sent you, then? Not leaving this one to a probie with a clipboard?”
Freddie didn’t rise to the bait. “Heard about the RTC last night, too. Storm took a car off the bypass.” He paused, watching Reece carefully. “Heard you were first in.”
Reece stiffened. “Yeah.”
Freddie nodded, tapping his pen on the side of his notebook. “You alright?”
“Me? I’m golden.”
“Yeah? Only… I also heard you had to pull Trent off the casualty.”
Reece said nothing.
“You know…” Freddie held his gaze. “I saw him. After the fire. At the gym.”
Reece stiffened, his stomach tightening in a way that had nothing to do with smoke and everything to do with the memory of Trent’s broken voice, his hands clinging tight as if he was drowning.
“We all use that gym.”
“At stupid o’clock when you’re not even on nights?
Come on, mate.” Freddie gave him a pointed look.
“He wasn’t there to hit the treadmill. He was waiting.
And I’d put good money down that he was there for you.
Said he’d heard a firefighter got hurt. And the look on his face when he asked?
That wasn’t casual concern. That was panic. Written all over him.”
Reece dragged a rough hand down his face. “You going somewhere with this, or here to play agony aunt?”
Freddie shrugged, tucking his notebook away. “Not my job to tell you what it means. Laying out the facts. What you do with them? That’s on you.”
Freddie gave him an infuriating smile, then turned and walked away, leaving Reece standing there, the silence of the empty bay pressing in like lead on his chest.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He’d thought he had it figured out.
That he was a distraction. Trent’s escape.
Reece had told himself that was fine. That it was enough.
That he was enough… for the role he’d been given.
A warm body. A way out. A quick fix for the dark places Trent couldn’t face.
But hearing that panic had cracked through the walls he’d worked so fucking hard to keep up and how Trent had cared whether he’d made it out alive and this wasn’t all Trent running from his own nightmares, but about running to Reece , about whether he was okay… well, that changed everything.
Reece didn’t know what scared him more. That Trent might actually feel something… or the faint flicker of something even more dangerous.
Hope .
Because relationships? Yeah, they weren’t exactly his strong suit. If he couldn’t hold it together with his own twin, how the hell was he meant to figure it out with anyone else?