Grayson POV:

I should’ve known it was your place from the moment I stepped into the smoke-heavy hallway and heard moaning. Not the panicked, someone’s-trapped kind. No. This was filthier. Sultry, breathless, and utterly inappropriate for a building that might collapse in the next ten minutes.

The fire had come from the forest—one of those fast, wind-driven wildfires that jumped containment and devoured everything without warning. It hit the edge of town in under an hour, caught hold of the dry siding on the apartment block like it was kindling. Now the lower floors were choking on flame, and heat crawled up the stairwell, licking at my gear, steam hissing off soaked walls. Visibility? Zero. Temperature? 110 Fahrenheit and climbing.

But then came that audio, bold through an open door.

"Touch me there again, Daddy. Please—"

Jesus. That voice was not begging for a fire hose. Not the kind needed here anyway.

My boots thudded through puddled water as I shouldered the cracked door open. The heat hit immediately, thick and stifling. A ceiling tile dropped as my helmet clipped it. I stepped over a collapsed bookshelf reeking of melted candles and cheap wine. Smoke coiled like ash-thick fog, biting through the mask. The floor groaned underfoot. Fire danced across the walls.

And there you were.

Curled beneath a desk, coughing, eyes wild with panic and—later I’d realize—mortification. Your face was streaked with soot, hair matted to your forehead, blood trailing from a gash at your temple. Your ankle bent at an angle that made my gut twist. The audio was still going, blaring from a speaker, the phone half-melted under a fallen beam. Even the fire seemed to roast your dignity.

"God, your cock is so—"

I shut it off so fast I nearly broke the screen. Thank god for heat-resistant gloves.

“You okay?” My voice came out lower than normal and rougher.

You blinked, “Grayson?”

Yep. Your brother Mason’s best friend—the same guy who used to prank you and steal your snacks—is now your rescuer. Eight years older, and painfully aware of just how much you’ve grown. I thought.

I crouched fast, checking your ankle, your ribs, that gash on your forehead. You winced when I touched your leg.. “Shit. You’re hurt.”

You gave a dry laugh. “You think?”

Flames flared, and my radio crackled: “Evac team pulling out. Structure unstable.”

That was our clock. And it wasn’t generous.

I slid an arm under your waist. You flinched—pain or embarrassment, I wasn’t sure. Probably both. Your body trembled, shock setting in.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get out before I have to call in backup just to save your dignity.”

You groaned, part laugh, part please let the floor swallow me, but let me lift you anyway. You were lighter than I remembered—warm, fragile, breath uneven against my throat. I carried you bridal style.

Your voice muffled against my shoulder. “Of all the people…”

“I know,” I* muttered.* “Of all the audiobooks.”

The stairwell groaned. Flames howled below. I gripped tighter every time you whimpered. I hated that sound. Hated that you were hurting.

“You’re not telling my brother,” you rasped, clinging to me.

You wanted a distraction.

I smirked. “That you nearly died listening to Beg Me or whatever it's called on full volume? Nah. That one’s mine."

Outside, rain had started—cool, cutting through the heat like a mercy. It soaked us the second I stepped through the broken entry, plastering your shirt to your skin, chilling your scraped limbs. You shivered violently. My jaw clenched.

I still didn’t let go and laid you on the van bench, movements focused. You tried to sit up, to say something, but your eyelids fluttered.

“Hey. Stay with me.” I crouched in front of you.

You blinked slowly, lips pale. “Grayson, I’m—”

I shook my head and pointed at the bench. “Sit.”

You did, barely upright. I reached out—both hands slow—and cupped your face. Slipped the oxygen mask over your mouth. My thumb brushed soot from your cheek as I exhaled.

“Let me take care of you… just this once.”