"I didn't realize you had the waistline of a Spanish bullfighter." Ablaze settles by the kitchen counter, chin propped on her hand. She doesn't dislodge it when she nods at him. "Makes me agree with this."

Harris glances down at his stomach. He's just rolled the apron strings twice round himself, cinching the waistline, the way Dad always does. If they don't, the ends would dangle and get into trash cans, pots and oven doors, because Harris inherited Edik's long narrow midsection. At least, he doesn't have his dad's sloping shoulders, so the willowy waist wouldn't have been a big deal. A couple-three women found it even attractive... it would have been fine, were the apron he picked plain black.

They only have—what?—half-a-dozen of those. The cruel chance has it that it has to be a novelty one Colin re-gifted to the crew last Christmas.

'Mr. Goodlookin' is Cookin'' is printed across his wide chest. A fringe of scarlet lip prints adorns the bottom. At least it's not the second one—

—the one Ablaze is scrutinizing right now, because it's next on the peg. She saunters over to unfurl it to full width.

'Try the Sausage!', it hocks its wares, with a finger pointing down from its breast.

"You've met Colin, right?" Harris says with a sheepish smile. "His theory is these kinds of things are exactly what the firehouse needs to test the candidates' mettle. Back when I was a candidate—"

Sam films, but instead of telling his anecdote, Harris rushes to the fridge for milk and butter. His skull pounds, because the fame of 'stronghold of toxic masculinity' is a given if he tells. Maybe the word's already spreading through the fiber-optic web. Villarreal won't be happy with that kind of publicity right before the fundraiser. And the boys—even more so, if the Chief comes down on them for a bit of harmless fun...

Better he keeps his mouth shut, particularly since he's measuring out flour, melting butter and mixing it all with milk, sugar, baking powder and shredded coconut.

The guys from the next shift file into the kitchen, greeting Ablaze, pulling up chairs to settle into a growing circle around her. On the bar stool, leg over leg, she rules the court. Not a single one of them, Harris wagers, even sees the stains on the hem of her pants.

Heat floods his cheeks. "I see why our shift has so much slack to pick up," he says pensively, as he divides the batter between three mugs. "All you do is flap your tongues."

He shoves the mugs into the microwave, turns it on and whirls into the storm of, "Oh, snap!" and hooting and "shots fired!" His arms cross on his chest involuntarily.

Insanely tall Derek elects himself the spokesman for his shift. His height makes him do stupid things like that. "Sure thing we ain't handsome enough to do some cookin'." 

Howls greet this witticism.

Dammit, he had forgotten about the apron! But in for the penny, in for a pound. "Yeah, I bet the lot of you can't boil an egg between yourselves." The microwave beeps. Harris pulls on the over mitts, and extracts three steaming mugs like a magician. The smell of coconut, butter and sugar perfumes the kitchen. But that's not the end of it yet.

He tops each mug with whipping cream and toasted coconut. "Move your grubby little hands," Harris grumbles over their jeers. Once the space is cleared from the elbows and hands, he sends the mug sliding down the counter-top like he was bartending all his life. "One mug-cake, Miss Leung."

"Ablaze," she says softly as he accepts a teaspoon from his hands. "Please, call me Ablaze."

He nods and proceeds to Sam with the second mug. The third is tacked away by the microwave, safely out of the vulture's reach. Please, let there be a four-alarm fire or something, to clear out the gawkers and give him time alone with Ablaze. He can't work with a dozen of other men hounding his—

The silence in the breakroom grows so thick, the hair on the nape of Harris' neck prickle. And Sam... Sam isn't filming him with the offering but something below his back. Someone. The tapping and jingling sound interrupts the silence. It's like it pulls the switch. Roaring laughter shakes the walls... not quite, but close enough.

"Mate," Sam mutters sympathetically, "how about that beer after the shift tonight?"

Harris slams Sam's mug on the nearest table. All the swagger has left him. And when he whirls on his heels again, into the storm of laughter... "Oh, f—"

Ablaze is scraping the mug cake into their chrome-finished, red trash can. Judging by how slow and deliberate her motions are, she's waiting for his gaze to settle at her. Once she feels it—God only knows how, sixth sense or what— once she feels it, she upturns the rest out and straightens. Her gaze doesn't leave his for a blink; they are locked.

Laughter grows fainter. The assholes are holding their breath, waiting for the burn. And she doesn't leave her posse hanging.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Sarkisian," she says in a ringing voice, "I'm afraid, if there's one thing I despise, it's the taste of coconut."

"Do you now?"

She sets her practically empty mug on the counter, without taking her troubling red eyes off of him. Their narrowing is the only indication of a vengeful intent. Her smile can fool CIA profilers, it's so dazzling. "Alas! It used to drive my parents crazy, because it's so hard to avoid back home."

That's good, he cajoles his plunging stomach. Capable of premeditation. Doesn't forgive insults. The reddish tint of her eyes casts everything in a sinister light. The urge to see her without these dumb contact lenses, make up and dye in her hair rises in Harris. He saw her naked, but he wants to scrub her, pluck the fake feathers and see what's underneath. An actual villain or an innocent girl.

Even her name is fake, because it wasn't her parents who called her Ablaze. They called her... but he wants it to come from her lips.

"Dishwasher is over there," he points. "Moms don't work here."

It's a weak comeback, so he doesn't delude himself. The guys are not laughing with him, and bros' solidarity be damned. They're laughing at him. Along with the rest of the world, probably, because Sam—

Sam's filming. What else?

He turns back to Sam and finds a measure of compassion in the man's one camera-free blue eye. "Let's do beer. Can't wait for this day to be over."

And then, finally, his prayers are answered.

"Engine Company 19, Truck Company 5, Rescue Squad Company 1–"

With stifled curses—or not so stifled, because they're pigs—men jostle out of the break-room. Their collective smell lingers in their wake—sweat, deodorant, tobacco—overpowering his rejected coconut. But now the air will have a chance to clear.

Ablaze's shoulders soften as she heaves a sigh. "Quite the trash-can you have."

Sam goes to film the trash can.

"A gift from Grade 5 class. They thought it was hilariously funny. Adults too sometimes find stupid things funny." He starts to unwind the apron strings, as slowly as she's spooned his concoction in the garbage. He hopes she catches his drift.

"You do know your way around the kitchen though," she says with a tiny curl of her lips. Now the red of her eyes is as beckoning as a candle in the dark of night.

"My father taught me. He's a pro."

"Really? I thought he was a firefighter. You have that vibe about you, of inherited craft... second, third generation."

So the guys didn't fill her in? They're slipping. "No, he's... he was a sommelier, then hosted a travel-and-cook kind of show in the early days of YouTube. He always says, 'A happy man must know how to cook...'"

This time Harris edits words before they pop out of his mouth. "'...and how to enjoy small pleasures.'"

Is this what it's like for her to live in the public eye? Never say anything she truly thinks? Or is she naturally inoffensive? The desire for real her, hiding--he's sure--behind Ablaze wets his mouth.

"Oh, that's wonderful! Is he still doing the shows? I'll link--"

"No," Harris snaps. "He's been in an accident and hasn't worked since." Happy? No need for a grapevine. He has loose lips himself.

"I'm so sorry. Life is cruel sometimes, taking away so much."

The melancholy comes over her in an instant. Harris physically senses her mind drift to the memory of her parents' tragic accident. Yet, it doesn't shut her off with a wall. Empathy extends from her toward him.

"Perhaps your mother worked here? I can't get over this aura about you. Like you belong in the shop as much as the men twice your age."

The compliment is pleasant, but his shoulders stiffen. 

"My mother is a fashion magazine editor. Home décor, bling." He doesn't name the magazine out of sheer stubbornness. He won't underscore her triumphs. She doesn't deserve it from him. 

Ablaze chuckles. "So does she approve of the novelty trash-can? Or despises it?"

"Neither. She simply doesn't care." He hears more in his simple, factual replies than the words imply. It's the same with her just now. But where she channeled warmth and compassion beyond what was said, he's 'aura'--to use her words--is stand-offish. He's more rude than the guys who cursed in front of a woman.

He clears his throat. "I... I don't like talking about my family. Would you like me to cook you something without coconut in it? The kitchen is ours for a while."

"No, but I want you to eat before Sam pilfers your breakfast."

"I would never!" Sam grumbles. Forgotten in the heat of the argument, he has emptied his mug--and placed it promptly in the dishwasher. "Wouldn't have minded seconds, tho, if someone didn't want hers."

Her eyes twinkle with merriment. "We get to break this streak of finding out what we don't like! That's all we're talking about! How are we still breathing with all this negativity?"

The pause is long enough for Sam to take a close up. By the way Ablaze's eyes widen and her smile grows to dazzling width, Harris guesses that she was sitting on some major news--at least major for her universe. He wisely keeps his lips sealed, waiting for it to drop.

Ablaze dips her head, plays with her hair and giggles. "Guys, guys! Oliver texted me! He's back to civilization and will make it to Milwaukee right in time for the fundraiser."

She turns slowly to Harris, her eyes widening as if this consideration just now occurred to her.

"It's not going to be awkward for you with my boyfriend also tugging along, is it?"

His stomach ties into knots the likes of which he hasn't experienced since high school. So, she has a boyfriend? 

It shouldn't bother him. 

In fact, it's great. Villarreal will be ecstatic. The man in Ablaze's life is not Angelo, he's Oliver. Her angelic fixation isn't significant, it's just a past trauma talking.

Oliver will likely drag Ablaze away from the firehouse full of strapping lads if he has a single jealous bone in his body. Harris definitely would have, were she his girlfriend... So, Oliver is about to show up, grab Ablaze, throw her over his saddle and ride into the sunset.

Harris is here to stay. His 'special' assignment is nearly done. He can go back to his normal life, twenty-four hours on, forty-eight off. 

Yes, yes, it shouldn't bother him.

"It doesn't bother me," he says as neutrally as he can manage. And he shrugs his shoulders, the ultimate weapon in his arsenal of denial. 

AN: Thank you from the bottom of my heart for answering the chapter questions. It helps me so, so much!

Question:

Is there still a sense of danger?