Friday evening arrived far too quickly.
I sat in a dimly lit booth at Groove’s, staring blankly at the condensation pooling around the base of my water glass. The clock on the wall read 6:45 PM. Our date wasn't supposed to start until 7:00.
What on earth am I doing here early? I scolded myself, rubbing my temples. And what am I thinking?
Julian Thorne was a rookie. He was cocky, arrogant, and a member of my crew. Dating within the station was an unwritten recipe for disaster. If things went sideways, our shifts would become a psychological battlefield. Yet, here I was, having spent two hours pinning up my golden-brunette curls into soft cascading waves, sliding into a fitted, crimson red dress that hugged every curve of my gym-toned body, and arriving fifteen minutes early like an eager schoolgirl.
I didn't even know what I wanted from him. Did I want a casual hookup? Did I want him to prove he was more than a pretty face? Or was I just addicted to the dangerous thrill of the heat between us?
"Please tell me you didn't sit there for fifteen minutes practicing your intimidating veteran stare," a smooth, familiar baritone chuckled.
I looked up. Julian was standing by the booth, and my breath caught in my throat. He had ditched his usual station t-shirts for a sharp, tailored charcoal button-down that made his broad shoulders look massive, and his hair was perfectly styled.
His hazel eyes swept over me, starting from my pinned-up curls, down the length of my red dress, and back up to my face. The playful smirk on his lips completely melted into a genuine, stunned expression.
"Jesus, Elsie," he murmured, sliding into the booth across from me. "You look... absolutely breathtaking. The red is dangerous."
A traitorous blush crept up my neck, but I forced a sharp smile to keep my defenses up. "Save the silver-tongued lines for Chicago, Thorne. I’m just wearing a dress. And you're late."
"I'm exactly five minutes early," he pointed out, his eyes dancing with that familiar amusement as the bartender dropped off a whiskey for him and a fresh IPA for me. Julian raised his glass. "To breaking the ice. Properly this time."
We clinked our glasses, and the initial tension began to ease. But as I took a sip, the unresolved questions in my head kept nagging at me. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table.
"Alright, let's skip the small talk. I need to ask you something, Thorne."
"Shoot," he said, taking a slow sip of his drink.
"Why me?" I asked bluntly. "You're a good-looking guy, you're the new hotshot in town, and there are a million girls in this city who would fawn over you. Why are you pushing so hard to cross lines with your crew member? What's your angle?"
Julian’s expression softened, his gaze turning serious as he looked across the table. "You think I have an angle?"
"I think you're used to getting whatever you want," I replied honestly.
"I'm showing interest because you're incredible, Elsie," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense register. "You're fierce, you're a phenomenal firefighter, and you don't take any of my crap. It’s captivating. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since my first day.”
The sincerity in his voice sent a heavy, delicious shiver down my spine. As the night went on, the heavy atmosphere turned back into our signature playful, flirty banter. The sparks between us were undeniable, flashing in the dim light of Groove's every time our eyes locked or his hand accidentally brushed mine on the table. I was finally starting to let my guard down, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this arrogant rookie was worth the risk.
Until the alcohol and his natural bravado got the upper hand.
We were talking about our training regimes when Julian leaned back, a lazy, overly confident smirk returning to his handsome face. "Look, Garcia, you're tough, and I respect it. But let's be real. That ceiling beam the other day? If I hadn't been there to pull you out, you would’ve been flattened. You local station regulars get a little too comfortable. You need a big-city guy like me around to keep you alive."
The words hung in the air, instantly souring the warm buzz in my veins.
My smile vanished. The casual, flirty atmosphere shattered into an icy silence. He didn't just insult my competence; he had chalked up my survival and my entire four-year career to a lucky save by a rookie who had been at Station 12 for less than a week.
"What did you just say?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.
Julian blinked, realizing too late that his arrogance had overstepped. "Hey, come on, it was a joke—"
"A joke?" I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floorboards of the pub. My hazel eyes burned with pure fury. "I've been pulling people out of burning buildings since you were figuring out how to thaw a nozzle in Chicago, Thorne. Don't you dare insult my capability or my crew because your ego needs a boost."
"Elsie, wait, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly, starting to slide out of the booth, his face flushing with sudden panic.
"Save it," I snapped, grabbing my clutch. "Enjoy the rest of your drink, rookie. See you at shift change."
I spun on my heel and marched straight out of Groove's, the heavy Nevada night air slamming into my face as the pub doors swung shut behind me. My blood was absolutely boiling, and the worst part was the sharp, crushing sting of disappointment tightening in my chest.