Page 1 of The Firefighter's Claim
one
. . .
Connie
The smoke seepsunder my door like a living thing, hungry and searching. I jolt awake, my lungs already burning, my eyes watering as reality crashes through the fog of sleep. Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong. The wail of sirens cuts through the night, and my stomach drops as I realize they're coming here—to my building.
My phone says 3:17 AM. The air tastes acrid, metallic. Wrong.
"Fire," I whisper, the word dropping from my lips like a stone.
I scramble out of bed, tangling in sheets that suddenly feel like restraints. My new apartment—my first place that's truly mine—is filling with smoke. The independence I've worked so hard for might literally go up in flames tonight.
I grab for my robe but abandon it, prioritizing escape over modesty. The oversized t-shirt I sleep in will have to do. My fingers fumble for the doorknob, but I jerk back, rememberingwhat little I know about fires. The metal feels cool enough, so I crack the door open.
A wall of smoke billows in, thicker and blacker than what had crept beneath my door. The hallway glows with an angry orange light. Fire. Real fire. This isn't a drill or a false alarm.
I slam the door shut, heart hammering so hard I feel it in my fingertips. Think, Connie. Think.
The window. I need to get to the window.
I drop to my hands and knees, crawling across the carpet as smoke fills the upper portion of the room. Four months ago, when I signed the lease, I'd fallen in love with my third-floor apartment's high ceilings. Now, that vertical space is filling with death.
I reach the window, my fingers trembling as I struggle with the latch. It sticks—it always sticks—but panic gives me strength. The window slides up, and cool night air rushes in, momentarily clearing my head. I lean out, gulping fresh oxygen.
Below, chaos unfolds. Fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance crowd the street. Neighbors huddle in pajamas and bathrobes, faces upturned and horrified. Someone points at me.
"Help!" I scream, my teacher's voice projecting better than expected. "I'm trapped!"
A firefighter looks up, gestures that he sees me. But the building has four floors, dozens of apartments. How many others are trapped? Will they reach me in time?
I glance back at my bedroom door. Smoke seeps through the edges now, curling around the frame like grasping fingers. The sound of crackling grows louder.
With the window open, I have air, but I've created a draft that's feeding the fire. The bedroom door shudders—the pressure or temperature differential pushing against it.
I retreat from the window, crawling back toward my bed. My eyes land on something small and fuzzy on my nightstand—theteddy bear little Jason gave me after his family moved mid-year. "So you don't forget me, Miss Evans," he'd said, eyes serious beneath his mop of dark hair.
I clutch the bear to my chest, this small token of the life I've built, the children I teach. Their faces flash through my mind—twenty-six kindergarteners who call me Miss Evans, who trust me to keep them safe during fire drills. Yet here I am, failing the most basic rule: get out, stay out.
The smoke thickens. My eyes stream tears that have nothing to do with fear. Each breath hurts more than the last. The ceiling ripples with heat waves, paint beginning to bubble.
I press my face into the teddy bear, drawing what comfort I can from its synthetic fur. The irony isn't lost on me—a grown woman of twenty-six, size 18 and hardly delicate, clinging to a child's toy while death approaches. But in this moment, I'm not ashamed of needing something to hold onto.
The sound changes abruptly—wood splintering, a crash that vibrates through the floor. The bedroom door bursts inward, knocked clear off its hinges.
A figure looms in the doorway, massive and dark. For one terrified heartbeat, I think it's the fire itself, taking human form to claim me.
But it's a firefighter, gear making him seem larger than human. He scans the room and locks onto me immediately.
"I've got you," a deep voice calls through the mask. "Don't move."
As if I could. My limbs have turned to water, my lungs to fire. He crosses the room in three long strides, kneeling beside me. Up close, his size is even more apparent—this isn't just the bulky gear. The man beneath it is enormous.
He lifts me like I'm nothing, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. My fingers clutch the teddy bear even as my other hand instinctively grabs onto solid muscle. Throughtears and smoke, I register blond hair peeking from beneath his helmet, a face blackened with soot.
He adjusts his grip, cradling me closer to his chest. "Hang on tight."
The world tilts as he stands, carrying my full weight without strain. I should be embarrassed—I'm not small, not dainty—but survival trumps dignity. Besides, in his arms, I suddenly feel delicate, protected. It's unfamiliar and intoxicating.
