Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Saxon
Every man in my station reacts when a woman walks in.
Doesn’t matter who she is—mothers dropping off brownies, girlfriends dropping off lunch, tourists wanting pictures. The guys all snap to attention like they’re posing for a goddamn calendar.
But I react when one woman walks in.
Briar Tate.
I feel her before I see her. Light steps, soft breath, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla drifting through the bay like someone cracked open a warm kitchen.
“She’s here,” Rowan whispers from across the engine. “Your fiancée.”
“Shut up,” I bark.
He snickers. “Fake fiancée.”
“Still shut up.”
Boone calls out from the hose rack, “Captain, you want us to clear the area? Give you two some privacy?”
I glare at all of them. “No.”
They grin like wolves because everyone knows exactly what’s happening inside me and exactly what’s happening inside her, and the worst part? I’ve given them plenty of reasons to notice.
Then she appears at the entrance of the bay, holding a Tupperware full of cookies with both hands like it’s a peace treaty. She smiles. Soft. Shy. Like she doesn’t know she’s been wrecking me for weeks.
“Hi,” she says, breathless.
I don’t say hi back.
I can’t. I’m too busy fighting the urge to drag her into the nearest room that has a door.
The guys gather like idiots. Ash leans on the engine. “Miss Tate. What a surprise.”
Briar smiles politely. “Just bringing a little thank-you for, you know…” She glances at me. “Everything.”
Axel elbows Ash. “Our captain loves thank-yous.”
I snap, “Enough. All of you—gear checks. Now.”
They scatter like children caught stealing. Briar approaches slowly, like she’s not sure I want her here. But I do. I want her everywhere.
“What are these?” I ask, even though I can smell the chocolate.
“Cookies,” she mutters. “For your crew. And you. Mostly for you.”
I clench my jaw. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But I wanted to.”
Her cheeks are flushed. She’s nervous. And when Briar Tate gets nervous, she fidgets with her hands and rambles and stumbles over her words like she’s trying to outrun her heart.
I love it. I fucking love it.
“Here,” I say, grabbing the cookies before she drops them. “Follow me.”
She blinks. “Where—?”
“Locker room.”
Her breath stutters. Her pulse jumps. She knows exactly what she’s walking into, and she still follows.
Good.
The second the door swings shut behind us, she turns. “Why are we in here?”
I back her up until her spine hits a row of lockers. She gasps. Heat rolls off me like steam from a vent I’ve fought too long to keep sealed.
“Because I need a minute without an audience,” I grit out.
“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”
“You did,” I cut in. “You meant to come here and act like nothing’s going on.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“Sweetheart,” I murmur, stepping closer, “the hell it isn’t.”
Her breath hitches. Her back flattens against the metal. She can’t move. She doesn’t want to.
“You brought me cookies,” I continue. “You smiled at me. You called this a thank-you.”
“It was a thank-you.”
“Bullshit.”
Her lips part. “Why would I lie about that?”
I lean in, bracing one hand on the locker beside her head. “Because you’re terrified of admitting what’s happening between us.”
She falters. “Saxon…”
“I told you not to say my name like that.”
She swallows. “Like what?”
“Like you want something you’re too scared to ask for.”
She goes still.
Her eyes say everything she refuses to say out loud.
I close the space between us, my chest brushing her front, her breath hitting my throat. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
She shivers. “N-no.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
I slide my palm over the locker above her head, caging her in completely. “Every time you look at me, I feel it.”
“Feel what?” she whispers.
“This.”
I don’t touch her. Not one inch. But my body crowds hers, heat pouring off me in waves.
Her breath falters. “Tell me.”
Her voice is so soft, I almost miss it. But I hear everything she says.
And everything she doesn’t. I drag my gaze down her face, lingering on her mouth. Her lips tremble. She wants me to kiss her. I want it too. Too much. But instead of answering, I stay silent. My eyes answer for me.
They tell her exactly what sitting across the dinner table from her does to me.
Exactly what hearing her laugh with Junie does to me. Exactly what seeing her in my station, in my space, in my life does to me. They tell her I want her a helluva lot more than I should.
She inhales sharply. “Saxon…”
I lean in—close enough to taste the breath she pulls in—close enough her chest presses against mine with each shaky inhale.
She tilts her head slightly. An invitation. A plea. I’m a second away from losing every rule I live by. One second. Her lips part—and then the firehouse alarm explodes overhead.
Blaring. Violent. Piercing. Ruining everything.
She jumps, slapping her hands over her ears.
I curse. Loud. Harsh. Every filthy word I know.
The locker room floods with red emergency lights.
Rowan yells down the hall, “Cap! Structure fire—north ridge!”
I step back like someone yanked a chain attached to my spine.
Everything inside me snaps shut. Duty slams back into place like a metal plate. Briar’s chest rises fast. Her lashes flutter. Her entire body trembles. I want to stay. I want to grab her face and finish what I started. But the world doesn’t stop burning because I want her.
I turn to her—just once—letting her see what I’m barely hiding.
“We’re not done,” I say, voice low enough it scrapes the air.
She sucks in a breath.
Then I’m gone.
The adrenaline from the call lasts an hour.
Maybe two. Flames. Smoke. Debris. Commands barked.
Water pounding asphalt. A roof threatening to collapse.
But even in the middle of chaos, I keep seeing her pressed against those lockers, pupils blown wide, waiting for me to kiss her like she already tasted it.
Rowan jogs beside me as we load equipment back onto the engine. “You good, Cap?”
“Fine.”
“You sure? Because you came out of the station like you sprinted through a wall.”
“Drop it.”
He smirks. “Locker room moment?”
Boone whistles from across the truck. “Damn. That explains it.”
I glare at them both. “This conversation ends now.”
Rowan lifts both hands. “I’m just saying—”
“Now,” I snap. He shuts up because they know better. Because what happened in that locker room wasn’t for them. It wasn’t even for me. It was for her.
And the fact that she shook in my arms but didn’t run? That she said Tell me in that breathless, breaking voice? Yeah. The fire isn’t the only thing threatening to burn this whole damn place down.
When I get back to the station hours later, I’m bone-tired and still keyed up.
She’s gone, obviously. But everywhere I walk, I see it.
The way she tipped her chin up at me. The way she whispered.
The way her pulse jumped when I crowded her space.
The smell of sugar still lingers. One of the guys left the Tupperware open on the break room table. I pick up a cookie without thinking.
Her cookies.
Her.
Everything tastes like wanting her.
I toss the cookie, frustrated at myself for losing control. Because I did lose control. Or I came damn close. And next time? There won’t be an alarm to save me from myself.
Later that night I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second in that locker room.
The way she looked at me—like I was heat and she was freezing and stepping closer wasn’t a choice but a necessity.
I shouldn’t want her this much. But want has nothing to do with it. It’s instinct. Pull. A gravitational force. She walks in and everything shifts. The world tilts. My pulse changes its rhythm like it’s syncing to hers.
And when she whispered Tell me?
No fire has ever burned hotter.
The next morning when she drops Junie off at school, I’m there—“routine safety check”—and she spots me before she expects to.
Her cheeks flush instantly. Good. She remembers.
We walk past each other in the hallway. Her shoulder brushes mine—accidental, maybe—but deliberate in the way she doesn’t pull away. I lean down, low enough my mouth almost grazes her ear.
“We’ll finish that conversation,” I murmur.
Her breath catches. “Saxon—”
“Soon.”
She closes her eyes like she’s trying to pull herself together.
“I shouldn’t have gone in there,” she whispers.
“You should’ve,” I counter. “You knew I’d follow.”
She swallows hard. “And that’s the problem.”
“No,” I say softly. “That’s the part you liked.”
She opens her eyes. Fire. Fear. Want.
All of it aimed at me.
She turns and walks into her classroom, leaving me there—wanting her all over again. And knowing damn well I’m going to get her. Not because of the fake engagement. Not because of the town. Not because of the circumstances. Because she wants me too.
And she can pretend all she wants—but I’ve seen it. Felt it. Heard it in her voice.
Tell me.
We’re past pretending. This fire is already burning and it’s only a matter of time before it consumes both of us.