Page 5 of Falling for the Bad Boy Firefighter
The man whose family has been the enemy for generations just carried me through fire without hesitation. The boy I've been taught to distrust since childhood just became my knight in shining armor.
Chapter 3 – Jax
The smell of smoke clings to me like guilt, a bitter reminder of last night that even a scalding shower couldn't wash away.
I roll my shoulders as I approach the firehouse, feeling the familiar tightness in my muscles—a tension that's part physical exhaustion, part something else I can't quite name.
Last night plays on repeat in my head: finding Penelope on the floor of the building, her form curled against the choking smoke; carrying her to safety; the way she looked at me afterward, like she was seeing me for the first time. The memory of her weight in my arms stays with me, unexpectedly solid and real.
"Morning, hero," Wyatt calls as I walk through the bay doors. His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp, searching my face for... something. Reaction, maybe. Weakness.
I grunt in response, heading straight for the coffee pot. I've never been a morning person, and the whispers already circulating about last night have soured my mood to curdled milk.
"Nothing heroic about doing my job."
"Not what the chief says," Samuel chimes in, folding his newspaper with deliberate precision. "Says you went in without backup, against protocol."
I pour my coffee, keeping my back to them both. "Building was clear except for her. Simple extraction."
"Simple extraction," Dominic mimics, sliding into the conversation with a smirk. "That why you're checking your phone every five minutes? Making sure she's okay?"
Heat crawls up my neck, and I'm grateful my back is still turned. "Just waiting for an update on the damage assessment."
It's not entirely a lie. I have been checking for updates, though not the kind the department sends. I've caught myself wondering how she's doing, if she's alright after inhaling all that smoke.
But that's not something I'm about to admit to these guys.
I turn, leaning against the counter and taking a deliberate sip of coffee. The liquid scalds my tongue, but I don't flinch.
"You hear what they're saying downtown?" Samuel asks, voice dropping lower.
My jaw clenches involuntarily. Here we go.
"Don't care much what they're saying," I reply, but we both know that's bullshit.
Samuel's eyes flick toward the doorway, making sure we're alone. "Judy from the diner heard Tom Sanders say you might've had something to do with starting it."
The accusation hangs in the air, ugly and familiar. I've heard versions of it my whole life. Walker men cause trouble. Walker men destroy things. Walker men can't be trusted.
"Let them talk," I say, though the words taste like ash in my mouth. "Nothing new."
Wyatt's expression darkens. "It's bullshit, is what it is. Ten years on this job, risking your ass for these people, and they still—"
"Drop it," I cut him off. "Not worth the energy."
The bay doors swing open, and Chief Mason walks in, clipboard in hand as always. His weathered face gives nothing away as he nods in my direction.
"Walker," he says, voice gruff. "Good work last night."
Simple words, but coming from Mason, they're practically a parade in my honor. I nod back, something loosening slightly in my chest.
"Just doing the job, Chief."
The morning briefing begins, assignments handed out, equipment checks scheduled. I'm on truck maintenance today, which suits me fine. Simple, methodical work I can lose myself in.
No thinking required.
I'm halfway under Engine 3, checking for fluid leaks, when a collective hush falls over the station. The sudden silence is so complete I can hear the tick of the wall clock, the distant hum of the refrigerator in the break room.
