Epilogue
The engine bay smells like diesel and hot metal.
I’m wedged between the truck and the supply trailer, my turnout gear still reeking of smoke from this morning’s burn.
My hands are calloused now, rough in a way they never were when I spent my days behind a camera.
The blisters from my first weeks as a recruit have long since healed over into hard patches of skin at the base of each finger.
Felix says they’re a good sign. Means I’ve been working.
Felix is pressed against me, his back to the truck, my body shielding his from anyone who might walk past. The fire camp is quiet, most of the crew is at chow, and the ones who aren’t are too tired to notice two people missing.
We’ve gotten good at this over the past year.
The stolen moments. The quick, desperate touches between shifts.
His mouth finds mine in the narrow space. The kiss is brief, functional, more habit than hunger. We don’t have time for anything else. We never have time.
“Missed you,” I murmur against his lips.
“I was gone three hours.”
“Like I said.”
He laughs and his hand slides down my stomach.
His fingers work the zipper of my pants with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times.
He has. In engine bays and supply tents and the back of his truck with the windows fogged over.
A year of stealing moments, and it still feels like we’re getting away with something.
His hand wraps around my cock. I’m already half-hard, already aching, and the first stroke makes my forehead drop to his shoulder. His palm is rough, calloused in the same places as mine, and the friction is exactly what I need.
“Quick,” I breathe. “Someone’s going to…”
“Shhh...”
He works me fast, his grip firm, his thumb swiping over the head. My hips buck into his hand, and I bite down on my lip to keep quiet. The truck rumbles beside us, its engine idling, and the vibration travels through the metal and into my bones.
I reach for him. His cock is hard beneath the heavy fabric of his Nomex pants, and I stroke him with the same urgency, the same rhythm. We’ve done this enough times that we don’t need to talk. We don’t need to guide each other’s hands or ask what feels good. We know.
He comes first. His cum is hot against my skin. The sound of him, the feel of him pulsing in my grip, is what pushes me over. I follow a heartbeat later, spilling into his palm, my breath ragged against his shoulder.
We stay there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving. The diesel fumes hang thick in the air. Someone shouts something on the other side of the camp.
Felix pulls back first. He always does. His hand lingers on my chest for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his fingers splayed over my heart. Then he’s cleaning us up with a bandana from his pocket, his movements quick and efficient, the squad boss again.
“We’ve got a briefing in ten,” he says.
“I remember.”
“Burn Zone Seven. Could be a long one.”
“I know.”
He looks at me. The sun is setting behind the ridge, painting the smoke-hazed sky in shades of orange and pink.
The same colors as the fire that brought us together.
The same colors as the tower. His face is still streaked with soot, his eyes tired but bright, and he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“You good?” he asks.
“I’m good.”
He presses his forehead to mine and exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding it since the moment we met. Maybe he has. Maybe we both have.
A year ago, I was a photojournalist chasing danger with a camera between myself and the heat. I didn’t know how to stay still. I didn’t know how to let myself want something I couldn’t pack in a carry-on.
Now I’m a wildland firefighter recruit. My hands are rough and my back aches and I spend my days digging firelines and hauling hoses and learning to read the wind the way Felix does.
I’m not the guy behind the lens anymore.
I’m the guy in the smoke, the guy with the Pulaski, the guy who follows his squad boss into the burn zone without hesitation.
My radio crackles. Felix’s voice comes through, the same voice I heard across the fire camp a year ago, low and sure and completely in command.
“Burn Zone Seven, let’s go.”
I pull on my helmet. Felix is already at the engine, but he’s not looking back. He’s just standing there, one hand on the door, waiting.
I walk up to him. Not behind him. Beside him.
He glances at me, just for a second, a quiet look.
We climb into the cab together.
The End
I hope you enjoyed the story.