Ace Harlan's office door was locked, but the blinds were half-open, slanted just enough to let slivers of late-afternoon sun stripe across the cluttered desk. Papers scattered like fallen soldiers, a half-empty coffee mug teetering on the edge, and the faint smell of motor oil and smoke clinging to everything. He had the female medic, Lena, bent over that same desk, her scrub pants shoved down to her thighs, white coat rucked up around her waist. Her palms slapped the wood for balance every time he drove into her, hard and unapologetic, the rhythm steady like he was putting out a fire instead of starting one.
"Fuck, Ace," she gasped, voice muffled against her own forearm. Sweat beaded along her spine, dark hair sticking to her neck. She arched back, chasing the angle, nails scraping the desk calendar that still showed last month's dates because who had time to flip pages in this job. Ace gripped her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh, pulling her onto him with every thrust. His shirt hung open, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders dangling loose like forgotten restraints. Sweat glistened on his chest, tracing the ridges of muscle he earned hauling hoses and hauling bodies. He didn't talk much during this part—just low grunts, the occasional filthy praise that made her clench around him tighter.
"You take it so good," he muttered, voice rough from smoke and want. One hand slid up her back, fisting her hair gently but firmly, tilting her head so he could see her face in the reflection of the window. Eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. Perfect. He liked seeing that look, the one that said she'd forgotten her own name for a minute. It fed something in him, the same part that loved walking out of a burning building with everyone alive and a few phone numbers scribbled on his arm.
He picked up the pace, hips snapping forward, desk creaking under the force. Lena's moans turned sharper, desperate. "Don't stop—right there—Ace—" Her words dissolved into a broken cry as she came, thighs trembling, inner walls fluttering around him like they wanted to keep him forever. Ace followed seconds later, burying himself deep with a low groan, pulsing inside her until his vision spotted white. For a heartbeat the world was just heat, slick skin, and the thud of his own pulse in his ears.
Then the alarm shattered everything.
A piercing wail ripped through the station speakers, red lights flashing across the walls like blood. Structure fire, downtown warehouse district, possible trapped occupants. Ace pulled out fast, breathing hard, already reaching for his pants. Lena straightened on shaky legs, tugging her scrubs back up, face flushed but professional in an instant. "Go," she said, voice still husky. "I'll clean up."
Ace zipped up, buttoned his shirt halfway, grabbed his turnout jacket from the chair. No time for tenderness, no lingering kiss. He flashed her that trademark grin—cocky, boyish, the one that made half the station swoon and the other half roll their eyes. "Rain check, doc."
She laughed, breathless. "You owe me coffee. And maybe round two."
He was already moving, boots pounding the hallway as he shouted down the corridor. "Engine 47, roll out! Let's move, people!" The crew scrambled like hornets kicked from a nest—probies fumbling gear, veterans calm but quick. Ace slid down the pole first, landing with a thud that vibrated through his still-racing blood. He yanked on his helmet, mask dangling, jacket snapping closed over the half-buttoned shirt. Adrenaline surged fresh, hotter than sex, sharper than any afterglow.
The bay doors rolled up, sunlight blasting in. Trucks roared to life, sirens screaming to life like war cries. Ace jumped into the jump seat, slamming the door as the engine lurched forward. His crew filled the rig around him: Ramirez cracking jokes about timing, the new kid wide-eyed and gripping the rail like it might save him. Ace leaned back, legs spread, one hand braced on the ceiling, the other tapping a restless rhythm on his thigh. Post-sex endorphins mixed with pre-fire adrenaline into something electric, dangerous, alive.
He stared out the window as the city blurred past—neon signs flickering even in daylight, pedestrians scattering, horns blaring in protest. The warehouse district loomed ahead, smoke already staining the sky like spilled ink. Ace's grin widened, feral and focused. This was what he lived for: the rush, the rescue, the moment when everything narrowed to flames and survival. Women came and went, quick and fun and forgettable. But fire? Fire was forever faithful. It never lied about what it wanted. It just burned.
The truck screeched to a halt at the scene. Ace was out before it fully stopped, helmet on, axe in hand, already barking orders. "Vent the roof! Hose lines to the front! Search for occupants!" His voice cut through the chaos like a blade, calm and commanding. People looked to him because he never hesitated, never faltered, never let the fear show. Inside, his body still hummed from Lena, muscles loose and ready, mind razor-sharp.
He charged toward the entrance, smoke swallowing him whole. Behind him the crew followed without question. Ace Harlan, heartthrob firefighter, playboy legend, the man who fucked like he fought fires—fast, hard, and always coming out on top.
The blaze waited for him like an old lover, hungry and roaring. And Ace walked right in, grinning the whole way.