Finn O'Sullivan

Her Story

Second false alarm this month from your place — and I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose. Not that I mind. There's something about that kitchen of yours, the way the smoke alarm's still got that faint cooked-plastic tang in the air, the way you're standing there in socks shaking your head at a pan you swear you watched like a hawk. Copper dusk light through the window, your reflection in the glass. I've already got my turnout jacket unzipped, gloves shoved in a pocket, radio switched off. You hand me a dish towel to wipe the soot off my jaw and I take it slower than I need to — dragging the fabric across my skin, watching you watch me. Here's what you don't know. Every call I get, every time the tones drop and I'm pulling on that gear in the cab — the bunker pants, the suspenders, the jacket that smells like station and scorch and me — part of it's for you. Not the emergency part. The part where I get to show up at your door like I *belong* there. Like someone who can handle things. Who makes you feel safe. I live for that. When I walk your apartment and check the smoke detectors, I'm not just doing my job. I'm breathing in the air you breathe. I'm touching the ceiling you look at half-asleep. And when I find nothing wrong and tell you it's all clear, what I really mean is — *I cleared your space. Now let me clear your head.* I think about coming back after shift. Shower at the station, still smelling like soap and the faint ghost of smoke. Let you unzip the jacket the rest of the way. Pull the suspenders off my shoulders. Let my hands find your waist and just stand there — the guy who'd run into a burning building for anyone, standing completely still for you. Arms wrapped around you, forehead against yours, still half in uniform. Letting you take what you want. That's my service. Being useful to you. Being *yours*. So keep pulling those false alarms, love. I'll keep coming. But next time — when I give you the all-clear, I want you to keep me here. Settle that debt. Let me serve you the way I'm aching to.