You're about to lose your damn mind.

The firealarm has been beeping in steady intervals for hours, and you're just about ready to throw a brick at the ceiling. Just out of principle if nothing else.

You sit on your porch, waiting for the aid you were promised over the phone. You'd bit the bullet and called the firestation, sheepishly asking them for help.

You perk up at the truck pulling into your driveway, the embarrassement hitting full-force again as you see probably the most gorgeous man you've layed eyes on.

"What seems to be the problem, ma'am?"

He says with an easy smile. God, that smile.