When Did You Get Hot?

When Did You Get Hot?

Lex Silvas

11/04/26

The first time I stood before a fire of colossal scale was right at the start of my career. I was still a young firefighter, barely in my twenties, brimming with energy and certain I was ready to risk my own life to save others. The call came in for a residential building, and by the time we arrived, the fire was already devouring everything with relentless fury. Flames spread like a living monster, and thick smoke blinded us, barely letting us see a hand’s breadth ahead.

But that is what we do: go where everyone else flees, defy the impossible, face the burning enemy that suffocates and consumes. Inside there, every second felt like an eternity. The heat was unbearable; the crack of burning beams echoed like a warning that the building could collapse at any moment. And still we pressed forward — for we knew there were people trapped, desperate, surrounded by a cruel, merciless fire.

The feeling of pulling someone out of that chaos is something words cannot capture. It is seeing terror in their eyes turn to relief, knowing your courage made the difference between life and death. At the end of the day, you are no caped hero, you cannot fly, you have no superpowers. What you hold is far more precious: the courage to walk into the flames, to carry in your arms the hope of someone who had already given up on escaping.

That is what being a firefighter means — ‘to be human to your very limit, and still choose to stand before the fire, because someone has to believe that life can be saved.’

Well, that was the speech I gave — or at least part of it — at a dinner held by the mayor, honoring the service we firefighters provide to this city. What did not make it into that polished speech, full of well-rehearsed lines, was the grittier truth: chronic underfunding, discouragement from those who ought to support us, the absurd red tape that swallows us whole every time we have to justify the obvious. A firefighter breaks down a door to save someone unconscious in a bathroom, and instead of hearing ‘thank you for saving my life,’ gets handed a bill for the damage to the property. That is what surrounds us: ingratitude and paperwork.

Sometimes I think it would serve them right if this whole city went up in flames, just so I could sit back and watch them all burn. And when panic finally took hold, I would scream at the top of my lungs: ‘Call for me now, shout my name, Jack Montana!’ And like hell I would come.

I was born in Kentucky, but have lived in Los Angeles since I was five or six. My parents split up, my mother remarried, and I grew up in a home where fire was almost part of the family. A stepfather who was a firefighter, a half-brother who was a firefighter, and even a dog who, in his own way, served as one for quite some time. Choosing my path was never hard. It was written into my fate: to face the flames, to carry hope for those who thought escape was impossible, and to prove courage is not a gift — it is a choice. When I got accepted into the junior brigade, my stepfather threw a celebration, bragging he had raised another man who would never bow to fire.

I have sharp, angular features, straight blue eyes that people mistake for anger even when I am perfectly calm. My hair is dark and cropped short, and I always have a layer of stubble that never quite grows into a proper beard. Broad-shouldered, built from hard labor, not gym sessions. Calloused hands, steady posture. The kind of man who never needs to raise his voice to be heard.

Another day at the station, another quiet shift, another day for those bastards to come pester the hell out of me here.

— Just tell me why already — asks that little shit Ian, my crewmate. — She’s tall, blonde, and desperate to sleep with a firefighter.

— Then why don’t you go out with her? — I ask.

— You know I’m married. And I love my wife — he says. — I don’t get you, though: single firefighter, not seeing anyone. So what gives? — he pauses for dramatic effect. — Got it. You’re gay.

— Just like your old man — I say, holding back my temper. — Look, I’m just not in the mood to meet anyone new.

— How old are you, anyway? Forty-five? Fifty?

— Thirty-two — I answer.

— And still not married, or got, I don’t know, fifty kids — he says, like that’s somehow wrong. — You’re bringing shame on the crew, Jack.

— Look, man — just because I keep my guard up doesn’t mean I’m not getting laid.

— With women?

— Of course with women — I say, my patience finally fraying.

— Then why have I never seen you with anyone?

— That’s because I’m not like you lot — idiots running around screwing half the loose women in town, then begging us to lie when they come looking for you.

— That only confirms one thing — he insists. — You even sure what being straight means?

— Just hand over the damn number — I say. — And don’t ever bother me with this crap again.

I take the slip of paper with the girl’s details and read: “Annie — 555‑40150”.

— Now leave me the hell alone — I tell him.

— You’ll thank me later, Montana.

— Don’t count on it — I say, glancing at the name once more.

Great. Now I have to text some woman I don’t even know. Might as well get it over with — I know for a fact that bastard Ian will keep nagging me until I send something before the end of the shift. I pull out my phone and type only:

Jack 9:32 AM: Hey, it’s Jack. Ian gave me your number. Just wanted to say hi. Nice name — Annie.

I send the message without enthusiasm and set the phone aside. Time to do something else while waiting for the next call — put out a fire, rescue a kitten from a tree. Makes no difference. Some old guy will fall off a roof somewhere in Los Angeles before long, anyway.

I spend a long while watching TV in the station, then remember to check my phone. There is already a reply, sent quite a while earlier.

Annie 11:08 AM: Hi Jack. Thanks. Annie was my grandma’s name too. I used to do yoga with Ian’s wife. She told me her husband knew someone he’d introduce me to. I see from your profile pic you’re a firefighter too.

Jack 1:01 PM: Sorry for the slow reply — you know how it is, swamped with work here. Ian didn’t tell me much about you. What are you up to?

Annie 1:04 PM: Just at work, writing the world’s most boring report. You know how it goes.

Jack 1:10 PM: Boring reports I know all too well — we’re drowning in paperwork here too. Sometimes it feels like being a firefighter is more about filling out forms than putting out fires.

Annie 1:12 PM: Haha, I can imagine. But at least what you do actually matters. I just type numbers and justifications all day.

Jack 1:15 PM: Don’t fool yourself — half the time it feels like nobody cares. You save someone’s life, and by the end of the shift you’re explaining why you broke down a door.

Annie 1:18 PM: That sounds so frustrating. But I think what you do is amazing.

Jack 1:22 PM: It’s just the job. Grew up around it — never really had a way out.

Annie 1:24 PM: So you always wanted to be a firefighter?

Jack 1:27 PM: “Wanted” might not be the right word. But since I was a kid, that’s all I ever saw. My stepdad, my brother, even the neighbors were all firefighters.

Annie 1:30 PM: I get it. You were surrounded by people in the line of work. Tell me more.

Jack 1:33 PM: Long story short. But yeah — this is what I am now.

Annie 1:35 PM: Good thing I like long stories. Maybe you can tell me in person sometime.

Jack 1:37 PM: We’ll see. For now, just trying to survive Ian shoving your number at me.

Annie 1:39 PM: Survive then. It might just be worth it.

I grin like an idiot, clutching the phone. We talk on and off for a few more hours, between quick replies and lulls, until I have to head out to a blaze just a few blocks away — an elderly lady who set her kitchen on fire, nothing serious. When I get back to the station, we pick up where we left off.

At some point, tired of typing, I finally call her. The moment I hear her voice, I know one thing for certain: I need to meet this woman. But I’m too nervous to rush into it right away. Then she mentions she loves Italian food — and I see my opening.

— Luigi’s stays open late tonight — I say into the phone, trying to sound casual.

I go quiet, waiting for her to catch the hint.

— Tonight? — she asks, her tone mixing surprise and curiosity.

— Or Tuesday. Whenever works for you — I reply, forcing myself to sound relaxed, though my heart is hammering against my ribs.

After a few long seconds of silence, her answer comes: — That sounds perfect.

— Loud and clear, captain — I say, half‑laughing from nerves.

That was it. I had a date with a woman I barely knew, at Luigi’s, right after my shift.

Three truths hit me all at once. First: there’s no time to go home and change. Second: I’d rather go naked than ask Ian for a shirt — I won’t give that bastard the satisfaction of knowing his little scheme worked. So I’ll stop at the department store on the corner the second I clock out and buy a new one, just to be safe.

Third: and let’s be honest — I’ll swing by the pharmacy too, pick up condoms and whatever else I might need. Just so if the night goes well, I don’t have to make up some excuse to leave early.

Fourth, and most important: I need to stop making lists. This is getting ridiculous.

By the end of it all, I was nervous — but also excited. Luigi’s was waiting. And so was Annie. I still had no real idea who she was, but I knew, deep down, I had to find out.

Please, God — let her be as lovely and funny in person as she sounds on the phone.