"Are you staying?"

"I'm not going anywhere"

****

The first thing Kenna felt was pain.

It radiated from everywhere—her ribs, her jaw, her wrists—throbbing in time with the dull thump of her heartbeat. The cold concrete beneath her was wet and sticky, and the metallic tang in the air confirmed what she already knew: blood.

Her own. Her mouth tasted like rust. Her face was swollen on one side, where Jason had hit her hard enough to knock her out. It took everything she had to open her eyes, and when she did, the world came back in smudged, flickering pieces.

The room was dim, lit by a single hanging bulb that swung slightly overhead, casting dancing shadows on stained concrete walls. There were no windows—just cinder blocks and silence, broken only by the faint, rhythmic hum of her radio. It must've been clipped to her jacket when she was grabbed.

God, had it really been less than twenty-four hours ago? One moment, she was out grabbing a post-shift coffee, ignoring the texts from a number she should have blocked months ago.

The next, she was being dragged into a van by the very man she thought she'd buried in her past.

Her wrists were zip-tied behind her back, the plastic cutting into already raw skin. Every breath was agony. One rib, maybe two, felt cracked.

Her left leg was throbbing in a way that made her nauseous. She couldn't tell if it was sprained or broken.

The thought of calling out made her want to laugh—broken and sharp—because even if she screamed, no one would hear her down here.

But she wasn't stupid. She'd been a firefighter for eight years. She knew how to survive.

And Bobby had taught her well. So instead of wasting her voice, she listened—waited. She tried not to panic. Tried to stay present. The only way out was through.

Then the voice came, low and mocking.

"Still breathing?"

Kenna didn't flinch. Wouldn't give him that satisfaction. But her heart pounded harder.

Jason stepped into view, crouching beside her like he was admiring a trophy. His face was twisted into something grotesque—rage, yes, but also triumph. He ran his fingers down her bruised cheek, and bile rose in her throat.

"You always were tough. Thought you were better than me. Thought you could run." He leaned in, his breath hot and foul against her ear. "But you can't outrun fate, sweetheart. You belong to me."

She turned her head slightly, blood coating her teeth as she spat, "I belong to no one."

His hand flashed out, striking her again—not hard enough to knock her out this time. Just enough to remind her who was in control. Her vision blurred, but she didn't cry out.

"You know what I love about this?" Jason asked, standing now, pacing. "That little radio of yours has been chirping all night. Little blips of static. Like it's waiting. You think your precious team is coming?" He laughed, dark and feral. "They won't find you in time."

Kenna didn't respond. She just closed her eyes and thought of Bobby.

Of the way he used to look at her after calls—when she was covered in ash and sweat and still catching her breath, and he'd smile like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Of how he never tried to fix her, just held space for her to be exactly who she was.

Of the way things fell apart, not because they stopped loving each other, but because she was scared of needing someone that much. She hadn't said goodbye. She hadn't been ready to lose him.

Now, she might not get the chance to say anything ever again.

But still—deep inside her chest—there was a tiny, unshakable ember of hope.

Bobby would come.

He had to.

——

Meanwhile, across the city, hell was breaking loose on the freeway.

The 118 was knee-deep in wreckage—literally. A multi-vehicle collision on the I-5 had turned into a full-blown extraction operation. A tanker had tipped, spilling fuel across two lanes. There was broken glass everywhere, two cars overturned, and one driver was still trapped beneath a crushed dashboard. It was the kind of chaos they were used to—organized mayhem, fire and smoke and screams.

Bobby was in command, voice steady and loud over the roar of engines and sirens. "Buck, get that second hydraulic spreader! Chim, I need you on vitals—Hen, oxygen on that woman now!"

Everyone moved with practiced precision. And yet, there was a strange energy clinging to the air—off-kilter. Like a tension none of them could name.

Then it happened.

Bobby's radio, clipped to his vest, hissed to life with a sudden burst of static.

And then—so quiet he almost missed it:

"Bobby..."

He stopped mid-step.

There was a split-second where the whole world seemed to fall silent. And then her voice came again, cracked and fragile, bleeding with pain.

"Bobby... help me..."

Buck looked up from the car he was cutting into. "Did you hear that?"

"Tell me that wasn't—" Chim started, his face going pale.

Then came the scream.

Raw. Gut-wrenching. Hers.

Bobby's blood went ice cold.

"Dispatch, this is Battalion 118," he snapped into his radio. "We just received a distress call over our frequency—origin unknown. Victim is Kenna Anders. She's one of ours. She's been missing for twelve hours. We need a location now."

Hen was already moving to her phone. "I'm calling in a trace. If that radio is active, we can triangulate. I'll loop in LAPD."

Another voice cut through the static, jagged and gloating.

"You think you can take her from me? You think you get to be her hero?"

Jason.

And then the sickening sound of something hitting flesh. A groan. Another scream. The kind that tears straight through the soul.

Buck's hands trembled on the hydraulic cutter. "He's hurting her. Right now. Oh my God."

"We're leaving," Bobby said, voice deadly calm. "Hen, take command of the scene. Get those civilians out. Buck, with me. Chim, grab med supplies."

"But—what about the scene?" Eddie asked, stunned.

"She's our family," Bobby growled. "We don't leave family behind."

——

The warehouse district was dead silent when they arrived.

A squad car waited out front, lights spinning, and two officers with drawn weapons gestured them toward a rusted loading dock. It reeked of damp metal and old oil. The building loomed like a mausoleum. No movement. No sound.

But the ambulance parked at the rear confirmed what Bobby had feared—and hoped.

He sprinted ahead before anyone could stop him, feet slamming the pavement, lungs burning. A wave of paramedics emerged from a side entrance.

And at the center of them—on a stretcher—was her.

Kenna.

She was strapped down, her face a map of bruises, blood trailing from her temple to her jaw. One eye was swollen shut. Her jacket was torn open, exposing layers of gauze hastily applied across her ribs. Her leg was braced, twisted unnaturally. An oxygen mask covered her face, but her lips were moving.

Faint. Whispering.

"Bobby..."

He dropped to his knees beside the gurney, grabbing her hand, which was ice cold.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm right here. You're safe now."

Tears clung to her lashes as she turned her head toward him, barely able to focus. "Tried... to hold on."

"You did," he said, choking on the lump in his throat. "You were so damn strong. We're getting you out. You're going to be okay."

Her fingers tightened weakly around his. "Don't let go."

"Never."

As the EMTs wheeled her toward the ambulance, Bobby followed without hesitation, climbing inside beside her.

One of the officers stopped Buck outside, pointing to a wall of the warehouse.

Red spray paint, slashed across the concrete.

"Next time, no one hears her scream."

Buck swallowed hard. "He's still out there, isn't he?"

The officer nodded grimly. "And he's not done."

——

The beeping was soft, rhythmic. A monitor somewhere above her head.

Kenna drifted in and out of it, tethered to the world by that sound and the dull, persistent ache in her body. Every inch of her hurt—but in a distant, foggy way, like the pain was wrapped in cotton. There were bandages around her ribs, pressure on her leg, a gentle weight on her hand.

She tried to blink, and the light overhead sliced into her vision like a blade. She winced.

Movement. A shadow beside her bed.

Then a voice—low, worn, familiar.

"Hey. There you are."

She turned her head slowly, the motion small and stiff. Bobby sat in the chair beside her bed, still in his uniform pants and t-shirt, turnout coat draped over the back of the chair like he couldn't bring himself to take it far. He looked like hell—scraped knuckles, ash in his hair, shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

His hand was wrapped gently around hers, thumb stroking her knuckles. He didn't flinch when she looked at him. He didn't look away.

"You found me," she whispered, voice ragged.

"I told you I would."

Kenna let out a shaky breath that trembled in her throat. "I thought I was going to die."

"You didn't," Bobby said, voice tight. "You didn't let him win."

She didn't say anything for a long moment. Her body ached like it had been put through a warzone—but it was the weight in her chest that hurt the most. Not just what had happened. Not just Jason.

But how close she'd come to never seeing this room. Never seeing him again.

"I heard your voice," she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed. "On the radio. Right before I passed out. You said you were coming."

"I meant it."

Kenna tried to breathe. Her ribs flared with pain, but she welcomed it—it reminded her she was still alive. "I didn't think I'd get to see you again. I... thought about it all. The future we could have had. A life of our own. It kept me going."

"Kenna." Bobby's voice dropped. Not angry. Just wrecked. "You're my everything."

Her eyes opened again, meeting his. "I don't think this is over yet."

He didn't deny it.

Didn't look away.

Just leaned forward, closer, like the walls he'd built were crumbling all at once.

"You scared the hell out of me," he said softly. "When I heard you scream—I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to lose you before I ever got to tell you how much it still matters."

Kenna blinked hard. "He told me you weren't coming."

"And I would've burned down the whole city to get you back."

Silence stretched between them, raw and quiet and heavy. No sirens. No radios. Just the hum of hospital machines and the soft crack of two people standing on the edge of something broken and tender.

Kenna's lip trembled. "I didn't want you to see me like this."

Bobby brushed a finger gently over her bandaged wrist. "I'd rather see you like this than not see you at all."

That cracked something in her.

Tears slipped down her temple silently, and Bobby stood, leaning over the bed to wipe them away with the sleeve of his shirt.

"You're not alone," he murmured. "Not now. Not ever."

She shifted slightly, wincing. "Are you staying?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

And when she drifted back to sleep a few minutes later, her hand still curled in his, Bobby stayed exactly where he was—watching her breathe, watching the lines on the monitor, and promising himself that no matter what it took, he wouldn't let her fight another battle alone.

Not this time.

Not again.