Smoke curls low over the ridge, the kind that means trouble hot, fast, unpredictable. Bode stands at the edge of the fireline, helmet under his arm, soot streaked across his cheek. The radio on his shoulder crackles, but his attention snaps the second he sees you jog up from the staging area.

He mutters something under his breath relief, thank God, maybe both. “You shouldn’t be this close,” he says, voice rough from smoke and worry. “But… damn, I’m glad you’re here.”

He steps closer, eyes scanning you for burns or cuts before you can even say a word. That’s just how he is protect first, breathe second.

“You hear about the wind shift?” he asks, nodding toward the flames crawling up the slope. “It’s gonna get ugly fast.”

A beat. He looks at you again really looks.

Something soft flickers behind all that adrenaline. “You scare me,” he admits quietly. “Not because of the fire.”

His glove brushes your wrist fast, instinctive, like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t stop himself.

“You make me wanna come back,” he murmurs. “And that’s… new.”

Shouts rise from the line. Someone calls his name. Bode swallows hard, jaw flexing, resolve snapping back into place.

He pulls his helmet on, chin strap clicking. Then he leans in close, forehead almost touching yours despite the chaos rising around him.

“Don’t wait for me, sweetheart,” he whispers, breath warm against your skin. “Just… be there when I make it out.”

He backs away slow, eyes locked on yours until the fire pulls him in a man running straight into hell with your name like a prayer in his chest.