Kindling Desire
?? Volume II
Burn 25: The Moment He Turned
Truth glows beneath ash, waiting for courage to dig deep enough.
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The firehouse always woke in layers; first the clatter of someone slamming a locker; then the hiss of the ancient espresso machine struggling to resurrect itself; then the voices, drifting in one by one like members of a lazy, mismatched choir. Ethan normally found comfort in that predictable rise of sound. Routine steadied him. Routine meant control. Control kept him from remembering things he didn’t want to remember.
But this morning, routine grated. Every scrape, every murmur, every too-loud laugh jabbed at nerves that felt raw and sleepless. Ethan shoved his duffel into his locker and rolled his shoulders, forcing a breath through his nose. He hadn’t slept again. Rooftop at two a.m., cold wind threading through his hair, the city below flickering like embers; he’d stood there whispering the same line over and over:
It can’t be her. He didn’t believe himself. Not truly. But denial was easier to hold than the alternative. Footsteps thundered behind him. “Morning, lover boy,” Morales announced, voice booming, grin obscene.
Ethan didn’t turn. “Morales, I swear to Gods; ”
“What?” Morales ducked his head into the locker beside Ethan’s. “I’m just saying you’ve been… distracted. Floaty. Gone. Like you’re in a shampoo commercial and wind keeps blowing your hair.”
“Do I look like I’m in a shampoo commercial?” Ethan asked flatly.
Morales made a thoughtful sound. “No. More like the ad where the guy is two seconds from screaming into the void because he’s constipated.”
Ethan slammed the locker shut. “Great. Thanks.”
Across the room, someone snorted. Harper, already halfway through a protein bar. “He’s not wrong, man.”
Ethan looked up. “About what?”
“You’re off,” Harper said, pointing with the last chunk of his bar as if Ethan were a faulty piece of equipment. “Like your head’s somewhere else entirely.”
Jenkins wandered by, mug in hand. “Somewhere… or with someone.”
The whole table erupted in laughter.
Ethan exhaled slowly. “There is no someone.”
“Uh-huh,” Morales said, leaning against the lockers. “Funny, because every time we bring up women, you go stone-faced and stare into the distance like some tragic Victorian widower.”
Ethan pressed a hand against the bridge of his nose. He should’ve expected this. The team was relentless; especially when they smelled blood in the water. Unfortunately, he was just tired enough to be giving off the scent.
He turned toward the coffeemaker, trying to escape, but Morales fell into step behind him. “You know,” Morales said conversationally, “it’s okay if you’re seeing someone. You can tell us. We’re like your second family. Dysfunctional, loud, slightly unhinged, but family.”
“I’m not seeing anyone,” Ethan said. Not physically. Not technically. But Alex lingered in his thoughts like smoke; impossible to swat away, impossible to breathe around.
Morales shrugged. “I’m just saying. You look like a dude who’s thinking about someone way too much.”
The mug rattled in Ethan’s grip. He forced his expression into something neutral. “Just tired.”
Morales leaned on the counter beside him. “You’re always tired. But this; this is different. You haven’t risen to a single insult in three days. Three. I tested that theory twelve times yesterday alone.”
“I noticed,” Ethan said dryly.
“So what gives?” Morales waggled his eyebrows. “Mysterious woman? Secret relationship? Star-crossed tragic romance with the chief’s daughter; ”
“Stop,” Ethan said.
Morales grinned. “Touchy. Definitely romantic.”
Morales flipped open the fridge. “It’s not romance. It’s stress. Dude’s wound so tight he might actually explode. Like one of those aerosol cans they tell you not to leave in a hot car.”
Ethan stared into his steaming mug. “Thanks for the poetic comparison.”
Morales slung an arm around his shoulders. Ethan stiffened. “We poke because we care,” Morales said. “And because it’s fun. But mostly because we care.” Ethan rolled his eyes but didn’t shrug him off. The team’s banter was obnoxious, but it was familiar. Solid. Safe. Exactly what he needed to maintain the illusion of normalcy.
Normalcy mattered. Especially when the edges of his mind felt scorched. Especially when he kept replaying the moment at the fire site two days ago; the faint chemical scent near the collapsed doorway, the soot pattern behaving wrong, the accelerant residue exactly like the sketches in Alex’s journals. He could still feel the jolt that ripped through him, a shockwave of recognition and dread.
He hadn’t told anyone. Not yet. Not until he knew if he was imagining it. Not until he knew if he still trusted himself. Jenkins wandered over, sipping from his mug. “Seriously though, Ethan; are you good? Like, actually good?”
The question was softer than the others. Ethan appreciated Jenkins’s tone, even if he had no idea how to answer. He took a breath. “I’m fine.”
“Fine,” Morales repeated in a mocking falsetto. “The universal code word for ‘I’m dying inside, please don’t ask further questions.’”
Ethan set the mug down harder than intended. “Morales.”
“Okay, okay.” Morales held up both hands, laughing. “I’ll stop. For now. But we’re watching you, dude.” Ethan gave him a weak smirk because that was expected, because that was normal, because reactions helped maintain camouflage. And he needed camouflage; desperately.
The chief’s voice thundered from across the room. “Briefing in five!”
The crew scattered instinctively. Ethan followed, falling into step with the others, letting the familiar rhythm of their movements dull the tension knotting his chest. At the long table, maps lay spread out. Case updates. Rotations. Nothing unusual. Nothing to justify the way his pulse kicked up at the mention of the warehouse fire still under investigation.
His team didn’t notice. Or maybe they did, just not in the way he feared. While the chief droned on about equipment checks and a new hydrant mapping initiative, Morales leaned close and whispered out of the side of his mouth:
“You sure you’re not seeing someone, Alex perhaps?”
Ethan stared straight ahead. “Positive.”
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“Because you’re jumpy,” Morales added. “Like someone with a guilty conscience.”
Ethan locked his jaw. “What would I be guilty about?”
Morales shrugged. “I don’t know. Intense eye contact with a mysterious woman? Secret rooftop brooding? Emotional turmoil? You’re practically a walking romance novel.”
Ethan cut him a glare. “If I throw you off the roof, will that count as cardio for today?”
Morales beamed. “See? The fire is returning. That’s more like it.”
Ethan wanted to hate him. But the stupid truth was he felt a little lighter. Banter didn’t erase dread, didn’t erase the image of Alex’s face, or the unease curling in his spine; but it grounded him. It gave him something to hold. As the briefing wrapped and the team dispersed, Ethan stayed seated a moment longer, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the table.
It can’t be her.
He repeated it silently.
It can’t be her.
But the firehouse buzzed around him, warm and ordinary, and the contrast made the thought feel sharper, crueler. Because ordinary wasn’t real. Not anymore. And the deeper his team pushed him with jokes and teasing and brotherly concern, the more he felt the truth pressing in beneath his ribs;
He wasn’t distracted because of some crush.
He was distracted because he was afraid.
Afraid of what he had seen at the warehouse.
Afraid of what Alex might be.
Afraid of what that would make him.
He stood and grabbed his helmet, sliding into routine like armor.
“Let’s have a quiet day,” Jenkins said, passing him.
Ethan nodded. “Yeah. Quiet sounds good.”
But inside, something whispered otherwise. Something smoldered. Something wrong. And Ethan knew; quiet days never stayed quiet for long.
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The firehouse quieted in a way it only did mid-afternoon: the lull between calls, the stillness before the next alarm. A few guys napped in the bunk room. Someone watched a cooking show too loudly in the lounge. Someone else was doing pull-ups, rhythmically grunting like a metronome.
Ethan used the rare calm the way he’d promised himself he wouldn’t. By slipping into the small, windowless office off the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound felt final; like the beginning of something irreversible. He told himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong. Technically. It wasn’t illegal to search the incident logs, the public records databases the department had access to. Every firefighter used them. But the intent mattered, didn’t it? Intent always mattered.
And his intent… His intent was a knot of fear, suspicion, and something far more dangerous that he didn’t want to name. He sat at the desk, the old rolling chair groaning under him. The computer hummed as he woke it from sleep mode. The glow of the monitor lit the tiny room, bleaching the color from everything. His pulse was already too fast.
This is fine, he lied to himself. This is normal investigative follow-up. Anyone would do this. They wouldn’t. Not without a reason. Not without a last name. And that was the first problem; he didn’t have one. Alex. Just Alex. The name felt too light in his hands, like a matchstick. Something that could burn him without warning.
He opened the first database; a citywide incident and witness registry. Every civilian involved in fire events, from injuries to interviews to bystander statements. He typed “Alex” into the search bar. The list that returned was enormous: Alexandras, Alexanders, Alejandras, Alekseis… hundreds of entries.
He exhaled, slow and tight. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should stop. He should; He clicked the filter anyway. Age range: 30–35.
That cut the list in half. He scrolled, eyes scanning each entry for something; location, date of involvement, anything that might overlap with the fires where she appeared like a ghost flickering at the edges of the scene.
Warehouse fire. The apartment blaze before that. And the alley near the derelict building where he’d first seen her, camera hanging from her neck like a dare. He checked dates against names. Nothing. No match. No “Alex” who’d been interviewed or treated. It made sense; she’d slipped away every time before they could question her. A habit that now dug under his skin like a thorn.
He leaned back, rubbing his jaw. What are you doing? Looking for proof? Looking for her? Looking for a reason to trust his instincts; or to ignore them? He switched to another database. A broader city registry. Not as official, but still accessible.
He typed “Alex” again. Too many hits. He added “female.” Still too many. He sat there a moment, index finger hovering over the mouse, breath held in a way that made his ribs ache. The fluorescent light above him buzzed faintly. Or maybe it was in his head.
He reached for the drawer under the desk and slid it open. Inside was a notebook; one the firehouse shared for jotting down training notes or equipment errors. But inside the cover, tucked discretely between two pages, was a scrap of paper he’d slipped there two days ago.
A description. Her description. He hadn’t meant to write it. He’d sat at the kitchen table after dinner, restless, his leg bouncing uncontrollably. The pen had been in his hand before he realized what he was doing. Now he unfolded it carefully.
Female. Mid-thirties. 5’6”–5’7”. Dark hair, slightly wavy. Pale eyes; gray? Blue? Uncertain. Takes photos. Carries old film camera. Quick movements. Startles easily. Avoids responders. Smelled like smoke after the warehouse. Not from proximity; embedded. Left-handed.
Possibly related to incidents? (he had crossed that line out twice)
A sketch of her face was beneath the notes; not perfect, but close enough that he felt heat crawl up his neck just looking at it. He shouldn’t have drawn her. He sure as hell shouldn’t have brought the description in here. He folded it again, but slower this time, as if the paper might tear if he rushed. On the screen, the cursor blinked in a blank search field.
He typed: female, approx. age 25–35, photography permit holders.
A narrower list appeared. Not many women in the city had active film photography permits; darkroom access, hazardous material waivers, that kind of thing. Only twelve. Twelve names. Twelve chances. His throat tightened. He began clicking through them one by one.
None of the first five matched her hair, her face, her build. Number six was fifty-four. Definitely not her. Seven was blonde. Eight lived across the city and specialized in wedding photography. He felt sweat begin to gather at the base of his neck.
Nine; Ten; Eleven; Not her. He hovered over the twelfth. His heartbeat skittered. Ridiculous. He didn’t even know why he was nervous. It wasn’t like opening the profile would magically reveal the truth he was afraid of. He clicked. A woman with curly red hair smiled from the ID photo. Wrong face, wrong eyes, wrong everything.
Air rushed out of him in a hard exhale he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Not her. Not even close. He pressed both palms into his eyes for a second, breathing through the sudden mix of relief and something else; something sharp and disappointed that he refused to give a name. Get a grip.
He leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. If she wasn’t in the photography permit registry, that meant one of three things:
- She used a darkroom without a permit.
- She borrowed or stole workspace from someone else.
- She operated completely outside the system.
He didn’t like any of those answers. A knock at the door jolted him. Ethan snapped upright, exiting out of the window so fast his fingers stumbled. He minimized every open tab, blanking the screen just as the door cracked open. Jenkins’s head appeared. “Hey. You hiding in here?”
Ethan forced his expression into something neutral. “Just updating some incident reports.”
Jenkins walked in, eyebrows raised. “In the dark?” Ethan glanced around. Damn it; the overhead light was off. He hadn’t even noticed the room was lit only by the computer monitor. He flicked the switch. “Forgot.” Jenkins watched him a little too closely. Not suspicious; just perceptive. Jenkins was always quieter than the others, and quiet people noticed things.
“You good?” he asked. There it was again. That question. He hated how much it scraped against him.
“Fine,” Ethan said.
Jenkins nodded, though his eyes lingered. “We’re about to start dinner prep. Morales is threatening to make chili again, so if you want edible food, now’s your chance to intervene.”
Ethan let out a weak laugh. “I’ll be there.”
Jenkins turned, hesitated, then added, “If you ever… I don’t know. Need to talk, I guess. I’m around.”
A beat too long passed before Ethan responded. “Thanks.”
After the door shut, Ethan slumped forward, pressing his elbows to the desk. His pulse still hadn’t steadied. She wasn’t in the registry. Not under any obvious category. Not under photography, not under incident witness logs, not under public permits.
It didn’t clear her. It only made her more of a ghost. He reopened the incident log again; just for a split second, just to look at the date of the warehouse fire. Then he typed into the search bar: Unknown woman. Seen near incidents. Camera. Dark hair.
The system blinked, processing; and returned nothing. No reports. No flagged sightings. No witness complaints. Nothing that proved she existed at all.
A chill slipped down his spine. It can’t be her, he told himself again. He closed the database with a decisive click, stood, and took a steadying breath. But as he walked back toward the kitchen and the buzz of normal firehouse life, one truth clung to him like smoke: He wasn’t searching because he suspected her. He was searching because he was terrified that one day soon… something would match.
Something would confirm the fear he kept drowning with denial. And when that happened; He didn’t know who he was supposed to protect. The city. Her. Or himself.