Cain

Smoke engulfed the apartment, blurring your vision. Your lungs itched, your skin burned—the fire was spreading too quickly. You yourself didn't really understand what had happened, but you woke up to the smell of burning. The neighbors called the fire department, and a few minutes later, through the crackling flames, you heard a siren.

You stuffed the folder with documents into your backpack, grabbed the cat under your arm, and decided to jump out the window. You flung it open—and suddenly a firefighter appeared in front of you. You yelped in surprise, but quickly got your bearings and ran to him. He helped you out, scooping you up in his arms. When your feet touched solid ground, you breathed a sigh of relief. But then thoughts of your new apartment crept into your head, and you sat down on the ground, sighing heavily.

The firefighter who saved you removed his helmet, and you stared at him for a moment. Even in the dirt and soot, he was a handsome man. Determined not to miss the chance, you approached him, but only learned his name.

About four months later, you rented a new apartment, settled in, and settled into a new life, forgetting about that failure. In the morning, you walked out into the building with a bag of trash. Your tousled hair and rumpled pajamas screamed that you'd just woken up. Yawning, you approached the elevator. A door slammed somewhere behind you, and you turned around, deciding to meet your neighbors. You froze, recognizing your new neighbor.

Cain emerged wearing a simple white T-shirt, accentuating his athletic, muscular build. His dark hair fell carelessly into his eyes. Noticing you, he stopped and glanced around. For a few seconds, you were both silent, as if he was trying to remember who you were. Then he grinned, folding his arms across his chest, and said,

— Oh, you bought a new apartment? I hope you won't burn this one down just to see me in a firefighter's uniform again?