the fire that found us

The crack wakes me.

Not the soft creak of old timber settling. Not the familiar sigh, of the house shifting in the cold.

This sound is sharp. Violent. Wrong.

My eyes snap open, and for a moment I don’t understand why the living room is glowing orange. I think maybe I left a lamp on. Maybe the sun is rising.

Then the heat hits me.

A wave of it — thick, suffocating, pressing against my skin like a warning.

I sit up too fast. The air is smoky, heavy, burning my throat with every breath. My heart stutters.

No. No, no, no.

I stumble to my feet, coughing as the truth slams into me.

The house is on fire.

My house. My family’s house. The only thing I have left of them.

Flames crawl up the wallpaper like greedy hands, devouring the photos I never took down — Mum’s smile, Dad’s fishing hat, the crooked picture of me missing my front teeth. They curl and blacken before my eyes.

“Stop,” I whisper, as if the fire might listen. “Please stop.”

The hallway is already a tunnel of flames, blocking the front door. The heat is unbearable, blistering my skin even from meters away. I back up, panic clawing up my spine.

The kitchen. The back door. I can get out through the kitchen.

I turn, but the ceiling above the kitchen groans — a deep, sickening sound — and then collapses in a shower of sparks and burning debris. The doorway disappears under a pile of flaming rubble.

My escape route is gone.

Smoke thickens, turning the air into something I can’t breathe. My eyes sting. My lungs seize. I drop to my knees, coughing so hard it feels like my ribs might crack.

I’m trapped. I’m actually trapped.

“Help!” My voice breaks, swallowed by the roar of the fire. “Somebody—!”

The flames answer me with another crack, louder this time. The floorboards beneath my feet are burning hot. The smoke is so dense I can barely see the window.

The window. If I can get it open—

I crawl toward it, every movement slow and heavy, like I’m underwater. I grab the latch and pull.

It doesn’t move.

Painted shut. Just like always. Just like Dad said he’d fix and never did.

“Please,” I choke out, yanking on it with shaking hands. “Please open.”

It won’t.

My strength gives out. I slump against the wall, coughing until black spots dance in my vision. The fire is everywhere now — racing across the ceiling, crawling toward me, closing in.

This is it. This is how I die. In the house I tried so hard to save.

My head drops forward. My eyes close. The heat presses down on me like a weight.

Then— A voice. Muffled, distant, cutting through the chaos.

“Fire department! Call out if you’re inside!”

I try to answer, but my throat is raw, my lungs burning. I manage a weak, broken sound.

Footsteps pound across the porch. Glass shatters. Cold air rushes in.

And then he’s there.

A silhouette in heavy gear. A mask. A flashlight beam slicing through the smoke.

“Got you,” he says, voice steady and impossibly calm. “I’ve got you.”

Strong arms lift me, pulling me against a chest that feels solid and safe even through layers of gear. I cling to him without thinking, my fingers curling into his jacket.

He carries me out of the flames like I weigh nothing.

The night air hits me like ice. I gasp, coughing violently as he lowers me onto the grass. Someone shouts for oxygen. Someone else asks my name.

But all I see is him.

The firefighter kneeling beside me. Helmet off now. Dark hair damp with sweat. Eyes sharp and focused on me like I’m the only thing that matters.

“Stay with me,” he says, voice low, urgent. “Look at me.”

I do.

Because in that moment — shaking, choking, the world spinning — he’s the only thing that feels real.

Behind us, the house collapses with a deafening crash.

And I realize I didn’t just lose my home.

I just met the man who saved my life.

***

The beeping is the first thing I hear.

Soft. Steady. Annoyingly alive sounding.

For a moment I don’t know where I am. The ceiling above me is too white. The sheets beneath me are too clean. The air smells like antiseptic instead of smoke.

Then everything hits at once.

The fire. The heat. The window that wouldn’t open. The arms that carried me out.

I, suck in a breath too fast and start coughing, my lungs protesting the effort. A nurse appears out of nowhere, adjusting something on the monitor.

“You’re okay,” she says gently. “You’re safe.”

Safe. The word feels foreign.

She checks my vitals, gives me a small smile, and leaves with the promise of “someone will be in soon.”

I’m still trying to figure out what that means when the door opens again.

And he walks in.

The firefighter.

Helmetless, gear gone, dressed in a navy T‑shirt and cargo pants. His hair is damp, like he showered in a hurry. His jaw is shadowed with stubble. And his eyes — God — they’re even sharper without smoke between us.

He hesitates in the doorway like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here.

“I, uh… just wanted to check on you,” he says, voice lower than I remember. “Make sure you were breathing and… not on fire.”

A laugh escapes me — weak, scratchy, but real. “I appreciate that. I’m trying to keep the spontaneous combustion to a minimum.”

His mouth curves. Not a full smile — more like he’s trying not to show one.

“Good plan.”

He steps closer, hands in his pockets, like he’s trying to look casual but failing miserably. He’s too solid, too intense, too… present.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Like I inhaled a barbecue,” I croak.

His eyebrows lift. “A barbecue.”

“A big one. Maybe a whole festival.”

He huffs a laugh, and something warm flickers in his eyes. “Well, you sound better than you did earlier.”

“I sounded like a dying vacuum cleaner earlier.”

“You did,” he admits, then winces. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“It’s fine,” I say, smiling despite myself. “I probably looked like one too.”

His gaze softens. “You looked scared.”

The smile fades from my lips.

I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know how to respond to someone who saw me at my absolute worst — choking, helpless, terrified — and still looks at me like I’m something worth checking on.

He clears his throat, shifting his weight. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Wren,” I say quietly.

He repeats it under his breath, like he’s testing how it feels. “Wren.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“And you?” I ask.

He opens his mouth — but before he can answer, someone calls from the hallway.

“Caleb! We’re heading out!”

He glances over his shoulder, then back at me. “I should go.”

I nod, trying not to look disappointed. “Duty calls.”

“Yeah.” He hesitates again, then adds, “I’ll… stop by later. If that’s okay.”

My heart does a stupid little flip. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

He gives me that almost-smile again — the one he seems to save just for me — and backs toward the door.

“Rest, Wren.”

And then he’s gone.

Leaving me staring at the doorway like an idiot, wondering why a man I’ve known for less than an hour makes me feel safer than the house I grew up in ever did.

***

A few minutes after Caleb disappears down the hallway, two police officers step into the room. Their uniforms look too sharp, too official against the haze still clinging to my brain.

“Miss… Jackson?” one asks gently.

I nod, my throat tightening.

“We’re sorry to tell you this, but the structure is a total loss,” the other says. “Nothing was salvageable. You’ll need to arrange alternate accommodation for the time being.”

The words hit harder than the smoke ever did.

Everything is gone. Every photo. Every memory. Every piece of the life I kept patching together.

I swallow, but it feels like trying to breathe through ash.

“Okay,” I whisper, even though nothing about this is okay.

They ask a few questions — where I was, what I remember, whether anyone else was inside — and I answer on autopilot, my voice sounding far away.

When they leave, the room feels too big. Too empty. Too final.

And for the first time since the fire started, I feel truly, completely alone.