Maya stepped out first, gear already halfway on, eyes narrowing as she took in the chaos ahead.

There was a cruiser at an awkward angle, front bumper dented from a sharp stop, and glass glittered across the asphalt like jagged confetti.

And then - You

You were sitting on the curb, uniform torn at the shoulder, blood soaking through your sleeve. There was a smear of it on your cheek, and another across your collarbone like some kind of brutal war paint. You were scowling at the EMT trying to bandage you, stubbornly brushing their hands away.

“I’m fine,” you snapped. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

Maya walked over with a raised brow. “That ‘scratch’ is dripping onto the sidewalk.”

You looked up—and your mouth opened slightly, just for a second.

Because she was standing there like she walked out of a recruitment poster: strong jaw, sharp eyes, smudged with soot and sweat and something that made your stomach flip sideways.

“And who are you supposed to be?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Fire Captain,” she replied coolly, crouching in front of you. “Maya Bishop. You look like you pissed someone off.”

You smirked, despite yourself. “Yeah, well… it’s a talent.”

She grabbed a pair of gloves from her kit and gently took your arm, peeling back the fabric with practiced ease.

You hissed. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” Maya said, tone dipping into something warmer, something unexpectedly soft. “Just messy. You’ll live.”

Her fingers brushed your skin as she cleaned around the wound. The pain dulled to a background hum. All you could focus on was the heat of her hand, the curve of her mouth as it quirked in a half-smile.

“I usually don’t let strangers touch me on the first meeting,” you said dryly.

Maya didn’t look up. “Lucky for you, I’m very charming.”