I didn't sleep.

I told myself I was reviewing arson files, but the pages blurred hours ago. My phone buzzed, once, twice, then fell silent. I didn't look. If it was Rafe... I wasn't ready. If it wasn't... I didn't want to know.

Then the call came in.

Code Red. Residential structure collapse. Possible entrapment. Medical emergency reported on site.

I grabbed my gear. Whatever was between Rafe and me could wait. The job couldn't.

The house was already half gone when we arrived—pancaked in the center, like it had imploded from within. Snow dusted the wreckage. Neighbors huddled in shock, their faces pale in the blue light of fire engines. I scanned the scene, heart tightening.

A crew chief waved us over. "Rookie trapped inside. Part of the floor gave out during a secondary sweep."

"Name?" I asked, breath catching.

He checked his radio. "Torres."

I didn't wait for orders—I was moving before the words finished leaving his mouth.

Torres was cocky, loud, and barely out of rookie status—but he'd pulled me out of a smoke pocket on my second week. Now it was my turn.

Inside, the wreckage groaned with every shift of weight. A support beam hung at a jagged angle above a half-collapsed hallway. Smoke still hissed from the kitchen side, and insulation drifted like gray snow.

I followed the faint sound of coughing.

"Torres?" I yelled.

"Here—" a voice rasped from beneath the collapsed staircase. "Leg's pinned. Can't move."

I dropped to my knees, cleared debris by hand, and reached him. His eyes were bloodshot, face slick with soot. His lips were turning gray.

"Just breathe," I said, grabbing the oxygen mask from my belt. "You're not dying on me."

But his eyes started to roll back. His body jerked once—then went still.

"No, no, no—" I fumbled for my radio. "We've got a code! Medic now! Subject non-responsive!"

There was no time to wait. I ripped off my gloves and dropped to my knees.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Compress. Breathe. Compress. Breathe.

My voice shook as I counted, sweat beading beneath my helmet. "Come on, Torres. Don't do this. You owe me that rematch, remember?"

Still nothing.

Then—he gasped.

Not a weak flutter. A full-body jolt that ended with a coughing fit.

I almost collapsed beside him with relief.

Outside, the medic loaded him into the ambulance. I stood, shaking, watching the snow begin to fall again.

And then I felt him—Rafe. His presence hit me before his voice did.

"I heard the call."

I turned slowly.

He was still bruised from the last argument, but there was something different in his eyes. Something humbled. Raw.

"You brought him back," he said quietly.

"I almost didn't." My voice broke. "I froze. Again."

"No," he said. "You moved. You saved him."

We stood there for a long beat, surrounded by steam, sirens, and falling ash.

Then he reached out, gently tugged a piece of insulation from my hair. "I'm sorry. For what I said. For leaving like that."

I nodded slowly. "Me too."

There was no kiss. No sweeping moment. Just that quiet hand in my hair, and the understanding that even in the middle of collapse—we could still resuscitate what was left between us.