Groove’s was exactly what you’d expect from a firefighters' hangout: dark wood, sticky floors, neon beer signs, and the comforting smell of fried food and stale ale.
When I first walked in, the awkwardness was palpable. Julian and I sat at the edge of the long wooden table where the rest of Station 12 was already half a pitcher deep. Without our turnout gear and the buffer of an active emergency, we suddenly didn't know what to do with our hands. I kept spinning my coaster, and he kept adjusting the collar of his Henley shirt—which, by the way, clung to his chest in a way that should have been illegal.
"So," I started, clearing my throat and taking a gulp of my IPA. "Chicago, huh? Must be a bit of a culture shock coming to Nevada."
"A little," he admitted, tracing the rim of his whiskey glass. His usual smug smirk was nowhere to be found. "Fewer blizzards, more dirt. And the locals are a lot feistier." He slid a sideways glance at me, a tiny, tentative smile tugging at his lips.
I huffed a laugh, the alcohol finally starting to loosen the knot in my stomach. "We just don’t tolerate cocky imports well."
"Fair enough," he laughed.
As the night wore on and the empty glasses piled up, the awkwardness completely melted away.
The rest of the crew eventually drifted out—Miller had to get home to his wife, and Henderson was practically asleep in his basket of wings. Soon, it was just the two of us left in a cozy, dimly lit corner booth.
I learned that Julian wasn't just some arrogant hotshot. He had moved to Nevada to be closer to his aging dad, and his cockiness on day one was just a defense mechanism to hide how terrified he was of failing a new crew.
"I wanted them to think I had it all under control," he murmured, his hazel eyes locking onto mine in the dim light. "But then I met you, and you immediately saw right through it. It threw me off."
"Good," I smiled, leaning my chin on my hand, feeling a warm, heavy buzz spreading through my veins. "Keeps you on your toes."
"Oh, you definitely do that, Elsie."
Just then, a slow, bluesy song started playing from the jukebox in the corner of Groove's. The pub had thinned out entirely; even the bartender was busy wiping down the far end of the counter.
Julian stood up, extending a large, calloused hand toward me. "Dance with me."
I blinked up at him, my heart doing a sudden, violent flip. "There's no dance floor, Thorne."
"We'll make one," he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with an undeniable challenge.
I took his hand. The moment my palm met his, a jolt of pure electricity shot up my arm. He pulled me up and led me to the small, shadowed space near the jukebox.
When he turned to face me, he didn't leave any space between us. His large hands slid firmly onto my waist, pulling my hips flat against his. A small gasp caught in my throat. Up close, he smelled like cedar, whiskey, and pure man.
I instinctively brought my hands up, resting them on his broad shoulders, my fingers curling slightly into the soft fabric of his shirt. We swayed slowly to the music, our eyes locked in a silent, heavy pull.
"You're a really good firefighter, Elsie," he whispered, his eyes dropping to my lips before lifting back to my hazel ones. "And you are absolutely beautiful. It’s making it very hard for me to keep my professional boundaries."
"Is that so?" I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I leaned in just a fraction closer, my chest brushing against his.
The vibe had shifted entirely—it was no longer just a friendly drink. It was thick, heavy, and incredibly spicy. "I thought I was just 'local talent.'"
Julian chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated straight through my own chest. His grip on my waist tightened, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. He leaned down, his lips brushing dangerously close to the shell of my ear.
"I was an idiot," he murmured, his breath hot against my neck. "You're a force of nature, Garcia. And I think I'm in serious trouble."
When he pulled back just enough to look at me, the heat between us was blistering. His hand slid up from my waist, his fingers wrapping gently around the back of my neck, his thumb resting on my jawline. He tilted my face up, his gaze dropping to my mouth again, and this time, he didn't look away.
The air felt completely charged, like the second before a lightning strike. Julian leaned down, closing the final inch between us, and pressed his lips to mine.
The kiss started slow, a tentative testing of boundaries, but the moment our lips met, all that built-up tension from the shift exploded. He let out a low growl, pulling me flush against his chest until there wasn't a single breath of air between us. His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of whiskey and a dangerous kind of sweetness.
I melted into him, my hands gripping his shoulders to keep my knees from buckling. The environment of Groove's completely faded away—the neon lights, the sticky floors, the hum of the refrigerator. There was only the fire he was starting inside me, one that no hose line could ever put out.
Julian’s hand slid from my jaw down to the small of my back, arching me into him. The kiss deepened, becoming urgent and desperately needy, a fierce contrast to the playful bickering we'd traded just hours before. This wasn't a spark; it was a backdraft.
When he finally pulled back, both of us were breathing heavily, our foreheads resting together. His hazel eyes were dark with a fierce, possessive heat.
"Yeah," Julian breathed, a breathless, genuinely stunned smile breaking through his usual cool exterior. "We are definitely in trouble."
I smirked, trying to regain my composure even though my skin was tingling. "Welcome to Station 12, rookie. Try to keep up.”