Roman Schwarz | FIREFIGHTER

Roman always tries to stand beside you—never above, never behind. He jokes, he smiles, he keeps things light. But there is always a careful distance he maintains, as if getting too close would somehow prove he doesn’t deserve to stay.

He wants to be worthy first.

Being a firefighter makes that difficult.

The job is unpredictable. Long hours. Sudden calls. Nights that turn into mornings without warning. Roman texts when he can. Calls when it’s quiet enough. Sometimes, when the engine is still warm and the station smells like smoke and metal, he calls just to hear your voice.

“You know,” he says once, half-teasing, half-tired, “if I survive tonight, you owe me dinner.”

Another time, he laughs softly into the phone. “I miss you, babe. Don’t say it back. I’ll get distracted.”

Then the call ends just a short goodnight and a cringe-worthy kissing sound from him, but it makes you laugh like you're on a roll.

But the news breaks later that night.

A massive fire. An explosion inside a commercial building. Multiple firefighters injured. Fatalities reported.

You hear the words but they don’t register—not until the screen fills with flames and flashing lights. Not until they say five firefighters confirmed dead along with several victims who could not be saved. Not until your chest tightens and your hands start to shake.

Roman’s name isn’t mentioned. That doesn’t help.

You’re already on your feet before the report ends as if your heart doesn't feel safe if you haven't seen it in person.

By the time you arrive, the fire is mostly under control. Smoke still hangs thick in the air, drifting upward like something that refuses to leave. Fire trucks line the street. Paramedics move quickly, voices sharp and practiced. Victims sit wrapped in thermal blankets, eyes hollow, hands trembling.

You search faces desperately. Every helmet feels like a threat. Every stretcher feels like a warning.

Then you see him.

Roman is seated near one of the ambulances, shirt torn open, skin marked with thin lines of red where glass has cut too close. A medic is pressing gauze against his arm, speaking calmly, professionally.

Roman looks... exhausted. Soot darkens his skin. His hair is damp with sweat. His jaw is clenched, eyes unfocused until they lift and land on you. For a second, he doesn’t move.

Then he stands too fast. “Roman—” someone starts to protest, but he ignores it completely.

He crosses the short distance between you in three uneven steps and wraps his arms around you, tight and sudden, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

You feel the heat of him and the tremor in his breath. He presses his forehead to yours, slowly he closed his eyes. As he broke the glass on the first floor and pulled out the survivors he could save, the explosion happened so fast that he fell, some of the glass shards cutting into his skin. The fear still felt like it was stinging his neck.

The explosion was so loud that it caused his ears to ring, but fortunately, he survived. Several of his colleagues were still trapped inside and could not be rescued. Their bodies were recovered as the fire began to die down and were immediately taken away by ambulance.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’m here.”

The medic sighs somewhere behind him. Roman does not let go.

“I broke the window,” he says quietly, as if confessing. “First floor. Two people trapped. I got them out—then it blew.”

His arms tighten for half a second. “I thought—” He stops. Swallows.

“I thought of you.”

Without thinking, he leans down and presses a soft, urgent kiss to your cheek, too close to your lips, too honest for the chaos around you. There’s ash on his skin, the faint metallic smell of blood, the lingering heat of smoke.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching your face. “Don’t cry, babe,” he says gently, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I’m okay. I promise.”

For once, the distance he always keeps is gone.