Chapter 30
HARTLEY
The television’s on because Alaska likes the noise in the background while she plays, cartoons shifting across the screen in bright colors while she lines her stuffed animals along the couch cushions since they’re having a tea party.
I sit at the kitchen table with a mug of tea in both hands that has already gone cold while I try to focus on something normal.
It works for about ten minutes.
Then the red banner flashes across the television screen.
brEAKING NEWS.
I look up without thinking.
The anchor’s voice shifts into that tight professional tone reporters use when something serious is happening somewhere nearby.
A video feed cuts across the screen showing thick black smoke pouring into the sky above a row of houses.
Fire trucks crowd the street below. Emergency lights flash against the brick walls of the surrounding buildings.
My thumb stops moving on the handle of the mug.
Chicago has fires every day. The city is big enough that smoke somewhere across town shouldn’t mean anything to me.
I try to look back down at the mug in my hands, but then the camera angle changes and the reporter’s voice continues while the footage zooms closer.
Three houses burn side by side. Flames push out of second-floor windows while ladders stretch toward the roofs. Firefighters move across the street, dragging hose lines through smoke thick enough to swallow the view of the houses behind them.
I lean forward slowly.
Then Engine 99 appears in the corner of the frame.
My brain takes a second to process it.
Then the name lands, and the mug slips from my hands and rattles against the table. Alaska looks up from the floor as I reach for the remote and turn the volume higher.
“…earlier today, multiple companies responded, including mutual aid units,” the reporter says while the camera pans across the scene again. “Fire officials have confirmed that firefighters from Ladder 99 were operating on the roof when part of the structure became unstable.”
Stellan.
The camera zooms closer to the ladder truck parked along the curb. Firefighters move across the roofline through thick smoke while a saw cuts through the surface.
I stare at the screen.
My hand moves toward my phone before I realize I’m reaching for it, and I open his contact and press call. The ringing starts.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Voicemail.
I hang up without leaving a message and open our text thread instead.
Me: You okay?
The message sends instantly.
No response.
The reporter’s voice keeps talking in the background. “…two firefighters have been transported to the hospital with injuries…”
I check that the message still says delivered. It does.
Alaska drags fox across the carpet and climbs onto the couch without noticing anything is wrong. The cartoon starts again after the news segment cuts away.
I stare down at my phone.
Still nothing.
I send another message.
Me: Please answer.
The little check mark appears beside the text.
Delivered.
My chest feels so tight that breathing takes effort.
I set the phone on the table and stand up, pacing across the kitchen before turning back toward the television. My eyes move between the screen and the phone every few seconds.
Lance flashes across my mind without warning.
The hospital room, the smell of disinfectant. My voice breaking in the hallway while someone explains what happened.
I press my hand flat against the kitchen counter and force a slow breath out of my lungs.
Not again.
The phone stays silent as minutes stretch long enough to feel like hours.
Alaska hums quietly to herself while she colors at the coffee table. Every once in a while she glances up at me. I try to smile back.
The sound of a car honking outside makes my head snap toward the window. Headlights sweep across the living room wall before fading.
My phone still shows no new messages.
The footage on the screen loops; the same flames, the same smoke, over and over again.
The lock on the apartment door clicks, and for a second I freeze. Then the door opens slowly and Stellan steps inside.
His pants hang loose around his hips, and his jacket is slung over one shoulder. Soot streaks across his face and neck. His hair sticks out in every direction, like he dragged his helmet off five minutes ago. The smell of smoke fills the apartment immediately.
Alive.
My body moves before my brain catches up.
I cross the room in three steps and pull him down into a kiss hard enough that he stumbles forward against me. My hands grip his shirt while his arms wrap around my waist automatically.
“Hey,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I shake my head once because I can’t form words yet.
My fingers curl into the back of his shirt and pull him closer, like I’m making sure he can’t disappear.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I manage finally.
His forehead rests against mine while he exhales slowly.
“I’m okay.”
I kiss him again before the words finish leaving his mouth.
Alaska appears beside us a second later and grabs his sleeve with both hands. Stellan crouches down immediately and lets her climb halfway into his arms while she signs his name with quick, excited movements.
“I know,” he tells her softly. “I missed you too.”
I watch them for a second before the tight pressure in my chest finally loosens.
Stellan stands again, Alaska still balanced on his hip, and looks back at me.
“You look like you’ve been holding your breath for an hour,” he says.
“Probably longer.”
He brushes his thumb along my jaw.
“Let me shower before you suffocate me.”
“Not happening,” I reply.
He huffs a quiet laugh, glancing down at Alaska.
“Alright, boss,” he murmurs to her. “You gonna let me go for five minutes?”
She pouts but nods and he sets her down on the couch, grabbing the remote and pressing it into her hands. The TV flickers as she settles in, already distracted.
“You’re in charge,” he tells her with a grin.
She beams.
Then his hand finds mine and we move toward the bathroom together, his hand sliding into mine like it belongs there.
The door closes behind us.
My heart pounds as I turn to him, desperation clawing at me from the inside out.
I thought I'd lost him, gone in that blaze, just ash and names on the news.
But here he is, solid and real, his skin still carrying the sharp tang of smoke and charred wood that clings to his clothes and hair.
I grab his shirt, yanking it over his head with frantic pulls, my fingers trembling as they brush his warm chest. He doesn't stop me; his eyes lock on mine, green and understanding as he kicks off his boots and shoves his pants down.
I strip too, clothes hitting the floor in a heap, my cock already hard and aching from the rush of relief mixed with raw need.
Stellan's gaze drops to it, then back up and he steps closer, the scent of fire wrapping around us.
His own erection stands thick and heavy, veins pulsing along its length, the tip glistening.
I reach for him first, my hand wrapping around his shaft, feeling the heat of him throb against my palm.
He groans low, his breath hot against my neck, and mirrors me, gripping my cock firmly.
But it's not enough. I need more…need to feel him everywhere, to erase the terror with this connection.
"Stellan," I whisper, voice breaking, and he nods, like he gets it all.
He takes both of us in his hands, one stacked over the other, his strong fingers encircling our cocks together.
The friction hits like lightning as he starts stroking, sliding our lengths against each other, skin on skin, slick with the first beads of precum leaking from us both.
I buck into his hold, gasping at the pressure.
The way his hardness grinds along mine, ridges catching and dragging, the friction turning sharp and desperate.
The smell of smoke intensifies as sweat beads on his skin, mixing with the musky scent of our arousal.
His grip tightens, pumping us together, thumbs swiping over the sensitive heads in tandem.
I clutch his shoulders, nails digging in, my hips thrusting erratically while he controls the pace, his breaths coming ragged bursts.
Relief floods me, chasing away the fear with every slide, every pulse.
"Fuck, you're here," I mutter, burying my face in his neck, inhaling that stinging reminder that he's alive, that we're both whole.
He speeds up, our cocks rubbing slick and urgent in his grasp, the wet sounds echoing in the small bathroom.
My balls draw tight, the edge crashing over me as I come first, spilling over his fingers and onto his shaft in thick ropes. He follows seconds later, his release mixing with mine, coating us both as he milks every drop with firm, unrelenting strokes.
We shudder together, the desperation fading as he pulls me close, both of us shaky and spent.
I back away before reaching around him to turn the shower on.
Steam fills the small bathroom while we wait for it to heat up.
Stepping inside, me first then him, the water pours over both of us.
Stellan leans back against the tile and pulls me against his chest while the warmth washes soot down the drain.
I rest my forehead against his shoulder and listen to the steady cadence of his breathing. For a long time, neither of us says anything.