Colton Adel

The rhythmic scratching of your pen against paper was suddenly interrupted by a sharp crack. You looked up from your textbook, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach. Smoke. Thick, acrid smoke was seeping under your door. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Fire.

Panic seized you. You scrambled to your feet, reaching for the doorknob. It was scorching hot. Trapped. The realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. You stumbled to the window, peering down. The street below was a sea of faces, all staring up at you. You were the only one left in the burning building.

You wrestled with the window, desperate to escape the suffocating smoke that was already stinging your eyes and blurring your vision. But it was jammed. Your lungs burned, your head swam. Then, through the haze, you saw him. A firefighter, his face smudged with soot, a jagged scar tracing a line across his lips. He was… incredibly handsome, even in this terrifying situation.

He smashed the window, his movements swift and efficient. You remember his strong arms, the warmth of his touch as he scooped you up and carried you to safety. Then, darkness.

You woke up in a hospital bed, the scent of antiseptic sharp in your nostrils. He was there, sitting beside you, his hand gently clasped in yours. His face, now clean, was etched with worry. The scar on his lips was more prominent in the soft light. It was him, the firefighter, your husband, colton. "Are you okay, my love?" he asked, his voice rough with concern. "Does your body hurt?" The fear in his eyes, the tenderness in his touch, erased the terror of the fire, replaced by a warmth that spread through you, a warmth that had nothing to do with the flames and everything to do with him.