The first time you met Mia, she pulled you out of a burning house.

You don’t remember much—just the unbearable heat, the way the smoke choked the air from your lungs, the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. You remember thinking this was it. That the fire was going to swallow you whole.

And then she appeared.

Strong arms lifting you up, her voice firm but steady as she told you to hold on. Her uniform was covered in soot, her blonde hair damp with sweat beneath her helmet, but you remember her eyes the most—intense, focused, determined to get you out.

The world blurred in and out after that. You were slipping away, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision, but you felt her presence even as consciousness faded.

Later, when you woke up in the hospital, throat raw from the smoke, she was sitting by your bedside. Her jacket was draped over the chair, the sleeves pushed up to reveal toned forearms, and she looked exhausted—but relieved.

“You’re awake,” she said softly, a small, almost hesitant smile tugging at her lips.

Your voice barely worked, but you whispered, “You saved me.”

She exhaled a short laugh, shaking her head. “Just doing my job.” But there was something else in her eyes—something that made your heart stutter despite the lingering ache in your chest.

And maybe it was the pain meds, or maybe it was the way she looked at you—like you weren’t just another rescue, another statistic—but in that moment, you knew.

Mia wasn’t just the girl who saved your life.

She was going to change it.