Chapter 4 – Austin
The emergency lights from the fire trucks paint Michelle's face in alternating red and white as the paramedic checks her oxygen levels for the third time. Her eyes find mine across the chaos of the scene, and something pulls tight in my chest.
I can still feel her weight in my arms, the way she clung to me when we burst through the smoke. The memory is seared into my skin like a brand.
"I don't need to go to the hospital," Michelle insists, her voice ragged but determined. She pushes the oxygen mask away from her face. "I just want to go home."
"Protocol says—" the paramedic begins.
"She needs to be monitored," Paul cuts in, his captain's voice brooking no argument. "We'll take her to the station. Nathan can check her vitals, and we've got oxygen there."
The paramedic hesitates, glancing between them, then nods reluctantly. "Fine. But if her levels drop below ninety-five percent, she goes straight to the ER."
I take a step toward her, then stop myself. Paul's eyes flick to me, sharp and assessing. I force my hands to remain at my sides, though every instinct screams at me to go to her, to make sure she's really okay.
The ride back to the station passes in a blur. Michelle sits between Paul and Nathan in the rig while I stare out the window, hyperaware of her presence just feet away.
The smell of smoke clings to all of us, but beneath it, I catch traces of something else—clay, maybe, or the faint sweetness of her perfume. My fingers twitch with the memory of holding her.
When we arrive at the station, the crew moves with coordinated efficiency, like a single organism responding to an unspoken command.
Nathan guides Michelle to a chair, his paramedic training evident in his gentle, clinical touch.
Bradley appears with blankets, draping one around her shoulders with surprising tenderness for a man built like a linebacker.
"Vital check first," Nathan says, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Michelle's arm. "Then we get you warmed up."
I hover at the edge of the room, uncertain where to place myself. My body aches to be closer to her, but I force myself to maintain distance. Paul hasn't said a word to me since we left the fire scene, but I can feel the tension radiating from him in waves.
"Oxygen's still at ninety-six," Nathan reports. "BP's a little elevated, but that's expected."
Logan appears with a steaming mug, his usual smirk softened into something gentler. "Hot tea with honey. My grandmother's cure for everything from a cold to a broken heart." He winks at Michelle. "Though I guess you're more of a coffee girl"
A small smile touches her lips, and the relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost painful. She's okay. She's really okay.
"I'll take anything that doesn't taste like smoke right now," she says, accepting the mug with both hands.
Arthur enters, his weathered face creased with concern. He places a bottle of water on the table beside her. "For after the tea. Need to keep hydrated with smoke exposure."
The entire crew forms a protective circle around her, each man finding ways to offer comfort without crowding her.
It's what makes this team family, this instinct to close ranks around someone in need.
I've seen it before with victims, with each other, but never felt it so acutely as I do now, watching them care for Michelle.
"You should sit down too, Rivers," Arthur says, eyeing me critically. "You took in a fair amount of smoke yourself."
I shake my head. "I'm fine."
"He gave me his mask," Michelle says suddenly, her eyes finding mine across the room. "Inside the studio."
The room goes quiet.
"Standard procedure," I manage, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears.
"Like hell it is," Bradley mutters, but there's respect in his tone, not criticism.
Michelle coughs, a harsh sound that makes every muscle in my body tense. Nathan immediately checks her oxygen levels again, but she waves him off, taking a small sip of tea instead.
"You need to get that burn looked at," she says, nodding toward my neck.
I touch the spot absently, having forgotten about it completely. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing," she insists, then looks at Nathan. "Can you—"
"On it," he says, already moving toward the first aid supplies.
I want to tell her not to worry about me, that the only thing that matters is that she's safe, but the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I stand awkwardly as Nathan applies burn cream to the side of my neck, my eyes never leaving Michelle.
She watches me too, something unreadable in her expression.
Paul paces at the edge of the room, his movements tight and controlled. The chief's mask is firmly in place, but I can see the brother underneath—terrified, and relieved. He stops suddenly, turning to face the room.
"I need to finish the incident report," he says stiffly. "Nathan, keep monitoring her. Logan, get her something to eat. Rivers—" He pauses, and I brace myself. "Get cleaned up. You look like hell."
I nod, understanding the dismissal for what it is. As Paul leaves, the tension in the room eases slightly, though I remain hyperaware of every move Michelle makes, every slight shift in her breathing.
Nathan applies a bandage to my neck with efficiency. "You're lucky it's just a first-degree burn. Should heal in a few days."
I barely hear him. Michelle is trying to stand, pushing aside Bradley's concerned hand.
"I'm okay," she insists. "Just stiff from sitting."
She takes a few steps, then sways slightly. I'm across the room before I realize I've moved, my hand catching her elbow to steady her. The contact sends a jolt through me, even through the layers of her sweater and my uniform shirt. Her skin is warm, alive, real beneath my fingers.
"Sorry," she murmurs, but doesn't pull away. "Just got a little light-headed."
"You should sit back down," I say, my voice low and rough.
She shakes her head, her eyes never leaving mine. "Actually, I was hoping we could talk. Somewhere... quieter."
My heart stutters in my chest. Behind her, I see Logan and Bradley exchange glances, but neither says anything. Nathan busies himself with repacking the first aid kit, deliberately not looking our way.
"Sure," I manage. "The common room should be empty."
I guide her down the hallway, acutely aware of my hand still at her elbow, of the slight lean of her body toward mine. The common room is mercifully deserted, the lights dimmed, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator in the corner.
I step back once we're inside, giving her space, though everything in me aches to do the opposite.
Michelle turns to face me, the blanket still draped around her shoulders. In the softer light, I can see the smudges of soot still on her cheeks, the redness around her eyes from the smoke.
"I used to hide in here during thunderstorms," Michelle says suddenly, her voice soft in the quiet. "When I was little and Paul was on shift. The chief back then, he'd let me sleep on this couch if the lightning got too bad." She runs her hand along the worn fabric. "I was terrified of storms."
"I didn't know that," I say, surprised by this glimpse into her past.
"This place has always felt safe to me." Her eyes meet mine in the low light. "Like being surrounded by guardians."
I smile slightly. "Your brother would love that metaphor."
"He takes the guardian role very seriously." She hesitates. "Maybe too seriously sometimes."
My fingers tap restlessly against my knee. "He's always trying to protect everyone. It's who he is."
"What about you?" she asks, tilting her head. "What's your story, Austin? Paul never really talks about your background."
The question catches me off-guard. People usually don't ask. I consider deflecting with humor, my usual shield, but something in her eyes stops me.
"I was a foster kid," I say quietly. "Seven homes between eight and eighteen. None of them stuck."
Her expression softens. "I'm sorry."
I shrug, aiming for casualness I don't feel. "It’s all good now."
"Is that why you became a firefighter? To help people?"
"Partly." I look down at my hands. "When I was ten, there was a fire in one of my foster homes.
Nothing major, just a kitchen fire, everyone got out.
But I remember this firefighter who checked on me afterward.
He sat with me on the front steps, let me try on his helmet.
Made me feel...seen. Like I mattered." I glance up, feeling strangely vulnerable. "I never forgot that."
"And now you're that person for someone else," she says softly.
"I try to be." I clear my throat, uncomfortable with the rawness of the moment. "Anyway, Paul took a chance on me when the other stations wouldn't. Said I had good instincts, even if I talked too much."
Michelle laughs, the sound warm in the quiet room.
"This place, these people—" I gesture vaguely toward the hallway where the rest of the crew is. "They're the first real home I've had. The first place I've belonged."
She's watching me intently now, something shifting in her expression. "Tonight, when you found me in the studio..." she begins, her voice dropping lower. "The way you looked at me. It wasn't just a firefighter rescuing a victim."
My heart pounds harder. We're veering into territory I'm not sure I should enter, but I can't seem to stop myself. "No," I admit. "It wasn't."
"I've never been so scared," she confesses. "I thought I was going to die in there. And then suddenly you were there, and everything changed." She takes a breath, her eyes never leaving mine. "I felt safe. Even with everything burning around us."