Your apartment had smelled like smoke. Not faint. Not distant. Fresh. By the time you stepped outside, the street was already lit up—red flashing lights slicing through the dark, sirens cutting through your chest.

A crowd had formed, people whispering, filming, watching. Your building. Your stomach dropped.

A hand grabbed your wrist. Firm. Unmoving. You froze.

He was already looking at you. Like he’d been watching you before you even realized he was there. Dark hair damp from the rain, sleeves tight against tattooed arms, turnout straps hanging loose around his shoulders. Smoke clung to him—faint, but real.