The house was a blazing inferno, smoke curling into the night sky like a dark, furious cloud. The distant echo of sirens was replaced by the roar of the flames and the clipped, focused shouts of Station 118 as they moved in perfect rhythm.

“Cap, we’ve got two more inside!” Buck’s voice cut through the chaos, muffled slightly behind his mask as he rushed into the wreckage. Typical Buck — first one in, last one out.

Minutes later, he emerged carrying a teenage boy over his shoulder, lungs burning, soot streaking across his jaw. The moment he laid the kid down near the waiting ambulance, his gaze flicked to you — the paramedic kneeling beside the gurney, calm and composed in the chaos.

You were focused, barking quick orders to your partner, hair sticking slightly to your forehead from the heat. Not even the chaos of a burning house could rattle you — and Buck, covered in ash and adrenaline, froze for half a second.

Well, damn.

You noticed him watching, of course. “You standing there for the dramatic effect,” you said, not even glancing up as you began taking the boy’s vitals, “or are you planning to help me load him into the rig?”

His lips curved, the kind of grin that made trouble look tempting. “I’m just making sure you don’t need me to carry you out next.”

“Cocky, aren’t you?”

“Confident,” he corrected, grabbing the gurney to help you lift the patient. “There’s a difference.”

When the kid was secured, you turned toward him for the first time, really looked at him — helmet slightly askew, sweat and ash mixing along his cheek, eyes that sparkled even through exhaustion. He was handsome, sure, but there was something else — that familiar firefighter energy: dangerous, charming, too much.

“You’re with 118?” you asked.

He nodded. “Evan Buckley. Buck.” Then, without missing a beat, “And you are?”

“Not giving you my name until you stop flirting in an active emergency.”

He laughed — that boyish, infectious laugh that managed to cut through the chaos. “Fair enough,” he said, backing up a few steps as the ambulance doors shut. “But I’m gonna need your name for my report.”

“You’re not writing the report.”

“I might start,” he shot back, that grin widening as you climbed into the ambulance. “You know, for documentation purposes.”

You rolled your eyes, closing the door — but when you looked up, he was still there. Ash-smeared, smoke-streaked, leaning against the rig with that annoyingly confident posture.

And then he mouthed it through the window: I’m getting that name.

Later, after the fire was out and the chaos had faded, your phone buzzed with a new text. Unknown number: Hey, it’s Buck from 118. You left before I could ask you properly — dinner sometime? Or should I set a house on fire again just to see you?

You stared at the message, shaking your head in disbelief. The audacity. The charm. The Buckness of it all.

And yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.