Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 240(@200wpm)___ 192(@250wpm)___ 160(@300wpm)
Ramirez.
Not Axel. Not Ax. Not the way she used to whisper my name when we snuck out past curfew.
The word hits me like a fist.
“Sure,” I manage, keeping my tone neutral.
I head toward the ambulance bay. I can feel her behind me. Every footstep. Every inhale. Every piece of her that hasn’t belonged to me for ten years.
Inside the ambulance, the lights hum softly. The space is tight, warmer than the bay. She climbs in behind me, and it feels even smaller.
“So,” she says, expression unreadable, “Devil’s Peak Fire & Rescue.”
I shrug. “Somebody’s gotta keep the mountain from burning down.”
“And that somebody is you?”
“Apparently.” I force a grin. “Try not to look so impressed.”
She fights a smile. A tiny one. Barely there.
But it’s enough to crack something inside my chest.
I pull open the upper med cabinet, careful not to brush her, even though she’s close enough that her shoulder could graze my arm with the slightest shift.
“The access code is six-five-two-nine,” I say, tapping the keypad. “You’ll need it for every restock.”
She nods, repeating softly, “Six-five-two-nine.”
My stomach twists. I wonder if she remembers. Those numbers—those were our soccer numbers when we were kids. Mine 65, hers 29.
“Supply check?” she asks.
I nod, reaching for the trauma kit. “Let’s start with airway.”
We work silently for a minute. Too silently. The air thickens, warm, heavy. I double-check the bag valve mask, hands steady but jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Then she asks, “How long have you been with the department?”
“Almost ten years. Did fire academy the summer I turned seventeen, specialized in wildland training and was on probation ’til I turned eighteen.”
I see the moment that number registers.
Ten years since the fire. Ten years since she left. Ten years since the world cracked open.
She swallows once but stays composed. “You knew what you wanted early.”
No. I knew who I wanted early.
“You could say that,” I answer.
She checks the glucometer, fingers deft and precise. She always had steady hands. I’ve watched them braid friendship bracelets. Stitch up her backpack. Cup my jaw the first time she kissed me—
I shove the memory down hard.
“What about you?” I ask. “Captain mentioned Peace Corps. EMT. Paramedic. That’s a hell of a resume.”
Her mouth lifts slightly. “I like to stay useful.”
“You were always useful.”
She stiffens almost imperceptibly.
I swear under my breath.
Smooth, Ramirez. Real smooth.
Before I can backtrack, she says calmly, “Well. People change.”
Not always.
I haven’t.
Not when it comes to her.
The tension swells again. Too much, too close, too familiar.
She crouches down to the lower cabinet, and I catch a glimpse of her hair sliding over her shoulder. A strand brushes the back of her arm, and the sight is so stupidly intimate my chest feels tight.
She asks, without looking back, “Are you going to keep staring at me, or do you want to finish inventory?”
My pulse jolts.
She’s still got claws.
Good.
Bit by bit, I feel the old rhythm kicking in. That push-pull. That spark. The thing we never named but both burned for.
I clear my throat. “I wasn’t staring.”
She glances over her shoulder, brows raised. “You absolutely were.”
Caught.
I don’t deny it. “Can’t help it.”
Her eyes widen slightly—like she wasn’t expecting that.
Neither was I, honestly.
She stands, closing the cabinet quietly. “We’re coworkers now.”
“Right.”
“Professionals.”
“Sure.”
“We should keep things… simple.”
I bite back a laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
She narrows her eyes. “Meaning?”
“Meaning nothing about this is simple.”
Her inhale is sharp. Controlled. “You don’t know that.”
“Savannah.” Her name slides out before I can stop it. Soft. Low. Dangerous. “I know exactly what this is.”
She freezes.
And for the first time since she stepped into the station, I see it. The crack in her armor. The flicker of the girl I knew buried beneath the woman she’s become.
She looks away, gaze dropping to the floor. “We should finish the check.”
Avoidance. Classic Savannah move.
I play along—for now.
We go through the rest of the supplies. She calls out items. I confirm. The routine is muscle memory. We used to practice this in high school when she swore she’d be a paramedic someday.
Funny how she made her dreams happen.
Funny how mine only ever included her.
When we finish, she steps out of the ambulance. Cold air sweeps in, brushing over my skin like a slap.
The captain calls her back for the rest of the tour.
She pauses in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. Snow swirls behind her, catching in her hair, turning her into something I can barely look at without feeling gutted.
She says, voice steady but tight, “Thank you. Ramirez.”
There it is again.
Ramirez.
Not Axel.
It digs into me. More than I want it to.
She steps away, following Cole toward the training room.
I watch her go.
Her shoulders tense. Her spine straight. Completely unreadable.
Except I can read her.
I always could.
And right now?
She’s rattled.
Same as me.
The second she’s out of sight, I press both palms to the cold metal of the ambulance bumper, bow my head, and breathe like I’ve just outrun a wildfire.