The old church was half ash, half miracle.

The blaze had started in the choir loft—a faulty heater, we were told—but by the time Station 42 arrived, the flames were licking the stained-glass windows like they were trying to swallow God.

We cleared the upper level fast, Rafe and I moving as one without words, our radios a background hum. Every breath was smoke-laced. Every second counted.

We found the last civilian—an elderly janitor, disoriented but unharmed—and got him out just as the main beam cracked like a gunshot behind us.

Then the ceiling gave way.

We were trapped for a moment. Crouched in the sanctuary, fire hissing through the rafters. And somehow, in the middle of it, with flames glowing against marble saints and fractured pews, Rafe turned to me—helmet off, soot smeared across his temple.

"We're clear," he said, breath ragged. "Backup's moving in. We just wait now."

But I wasn't looking at the fire anymore. I was looking at him.

We stood shoulder to shoulder under an orange-lit archway of destruction, hearts still pounding like sirens.

"You good?" he asked.

I nodded, but my voice caught. "Yeah. Just... adrenaline."

He reached for my hand—gloved, dirty, shaking—and gripped it tight.

"No. That's not adrenaline," he murmured.

The space between us shrank.

And before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped in—close enough to smell the smoke on his skin, feel the heat coming off more than just the blaze.

His hand slipped to the back of my helmet, guiding me forward.

And then—we kissed.

It wasn't perfect. It was rushed, messy, breathless. But it was real.

The kind of kiss that melted fear into courage.
The kind you don't walk away from unchanged.

When we pulled apart, sirens still echoed, but something new had settled between us. Not just tension. Not just want.

Something claimed.

We didn't say a word. Just looked at each other.

And then stepped out of the fire, together.