Page 3 of Venus

“…and then he didn’t even get her name!”

Jackson is practically wheezing with laughter as he slaps Trevor’s back and doubles over, tears in his eyes.

Trevor’s leaned halfway across the common room couch, reenacting my bar interaction with an invisible ponytail and the most dramatic impression of me I’ve ever seen. “‘Uh, hi, you’re beautiful, can I buy you a drink?’ Insert tragic rejection and walk of shame here .”

I glare at both of them from the lounge chair in the corner, arms crossed like a pissed-off dad at a Little League game. “Are you done?”

“Not even close,” Jackson says between gasps. “You got full-on rom-com rejected, my guy. She walked out without giving you her name like a sexy Cinderella and left you holding your—”

“Dignity?” I offer.

“Beer,” he finishes. “She left you holding your beer.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” I huff .

I shake my head and try to tune them out, but it’s no use. The image of her in that hoodie and those scrubs is already tattooed across the backs of my eyelids. And her soft, worn-out voice has been stuck in my head for days.

Even if our only conversation was a long winded rejection.

It’s been four nights. Four . And I’m still thinking about a woman who gave me absolutely nothing to go on.

Just enough of an impression to haunt me. But, like, in a good way.

“She didn’t seem creeped out, right?” I say aloud before I can stop myself, interrupting their banter.

Trevor raises a brow. “Dude, you kissed her hand. What was that? 1940’s foreplay?”

“She looked sad,” I mutter, as if that explains everything.

Jackson quiets down a little. “Yeah,” he says, thoughtful now. “She did.”

Before I can spiral into another round of self-inflicted overthinking, the department alarm shatters the mood. The lights in the station flicker red, and the sharp buzz triggers a switch in all of us.

Engine One respond. Major vehicle collision with confirmed fire. I-16 eastbound. Semi-truck involved.

Our Captain’s already calling out roles as we move. I toss aside my water bottle and sprint for the bay. The others do the same, and within seconds, we’re suiting up and loading into Leroy—our beat-up, beloved engine .

“Jesus, Westwood,” Rodriguez says as I clip my radio in place. “Are you sure you’re not an arsonist?”

I raise my hands in surrender. “Hey, I’ve got an alibi. You saw me getting roasted by my own wingmen just now.”

Laughter fades fast as the doors open and Leroy pulls out into the street, sirens screaming. There’s nothing like the feeling of being inside that engine. Adrenaline pounding. Heart thumping in time with the siren. The air charged with purposeful tension.

We hit the highway fast. Smoke is already visible on the horizon, thick and black against the early dusk. My fingers flex around the shoulder strap of my oxygen tank. This is what I do best. The chaos. The fire. The mission.

This is why I’m Vulcan.

We pull up to the wreck. It’s bad.

The semi is jackknifed across two lanes, the cab completely engulfed. One sedan is crumpled behind it, but no extraction needed. The occupants were able to escape their vehicles before the fire started. EMS is treating them for minor cuts and scrapes. They’ll take care of the people.

But the blaze? That’s ours.

Rodriguez barks orders. We move fast.

Trevor hands me the nozzle. Jackson is on backup. I check my tank, my gear, my gloves.

And then we move. Stepping toward the flames in perfect synchrony, the heat instantly presses against me like a wall.

The sound fills my ears. The roar. The crackle.

The pop of something collapsing inside the wreckage.

My mind narrows into a tunnel. One task at a time. One move. One target. One purpose.

We work in unison, voices crackling through radios, boots pounding wet asphalt. The water hisses and explodes violently as it meets diesel-fueled fire. Steam clouds our vision. My arms burn with strain, but I keep going, because I can’t stop.

This is who I am when I’m not sitting in bed wishing I had someone to kiss goodnight.

When it’s over, the wreck is reduced to char, ash, and soaked black metal. We do a quick debrief with the Captain and the PD. We do a massive game of rock-paper-scissors to decide who has to write the report.

Jackson claps a hand on my back. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I grunt. But my legs ache and my brain’s still stuck on that quiet corner of the bar and the way that girl didn’t look at me like I was a hero. Just a guy.

We head back to the station, the cab quiet except for the low hum of exhausted breath and the radio static fading into nothing.

Later, after we’ve checked gear and logged reports, I find myself in the kitchen. I wash dishes while Trevor sweeps behind me, as is tradition. We don’t talk much, just the occasional crack about how we smell like burnt bacon and Monster.

“Wanna hit the bar again this week?” Trevor asks eventually. “She might come back. Maybe she’s local.”

“If she were, we’d have seen her at County,” I say, drying a mug that somehow always ends up in the back of the cabinet. “We’ve been there enough lately.”

“Maybe she works on a different floor. Somewhere you meatheads never go.”

He’s probably right, but I don’t want to chase ghosts through hospital wings. That feels desperate. And I’ve already got one foot in the ‘sad guy still thinking about a girl from a bar’ category.

I mutter something about being tired and disappear into the dorm. The cot creaks as I sit down, shoulders slumped, back burning from the work. I stare up at the bunk above me, but I’m not really looking.

I’m thinking about that girl. Gorgeous. Distant. Maybe I’m not willing to go chasing ghosts through the county hospital, but I’m willing to hold out hope that I’ll see her again.

Jackson slips into the room a minute later. He sits on the bunk near my feet and nudges my boot. “You good?”

“Just thinking.”

“About the girl?”

I don’t answer. He doesn’t press.

Eventually, I say, “Sometimes I feel like Vulcan’s my only achievement. Like I’m just a collection of turnouts and trauma calls. And at the end of the day, I go home to no one. What’s the point of being the hero if there’s no one to come home to?”

Jackson nods slowly. “You’re not even thirty, man. You’ve got time to figure that out. And, if you want my brutal honesty, maybe stop hoping someone will see you as a hero. Carter is good enough on his own.”

I look over to him. “I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.”

He leaves me alone again. I lie back, eyes closed, letting the silence settle over me. And even in that darkness, all I can see is that beautiful blonde hair.