Worth the Fight is almost here! Releasing 30 September 2025, this second installment in the Worth It series brings readers back to the small coastal town of Worthbridge, where danger runs deep and love burns hotter.
This time, it’s firefighter Reece Morgan’s turn in the spotlight. Known for his tattoos, reckless charm, and refusal to settle down, Reece never expected to find himself caught in a romance that could change everything. But when sparks fly with paramedic Trent Lawson, the station flirt may finally have met his match…
Read the full first chapter RIGHT NOW by scrolling down….
Chapter One
Worthbridge Fire Station had sweat, smoke, and male bravado soaked into the walls.
Which suited Reece fine.
“Come on, boss. Any slower, I’ll have time to make the tea between punches.”
“Shut it, Morgan.” Crew Manager Ben Miller huffed, swiping his gloved fist through the air and missing by a country mile. “I’m going easy on you. Didn’t want to ruin the face you rely on for getting laid.”
“Not my face they want.” Reece smirked, ducked left, and tapped a neat jab to Miller’s ribs, sending the bigger man stumbling back two steps. “And that’s rich, coming from someone built like a fridge and fights like a tumble dryer.”
Laughter echoed around the makeshift gym set up in the back of the apparatus bay. Weights stacked near lockers, a half-deflated Swiss ball lurked by the corner, and a sparring mat rolled out beneath their boots. The punchbag had seen better days, stitched and duct-taped like some Frankenstein’s monster, and the sound system was blasting out old-school garage, the station manager trying to resurrect his glory days from the early noughties.
Reece bounced on the balls of his feet, muscle vest damp with sweat and clinging to every line of his muscular torso. He wore it for one reason: to show off the ink. And his body. Not that Ben Miller, his direct supervisor, gave a toss. Poor bloke had a wife and three daughters who’d probably string Reece up for sending their man home looking as if he’d swallowed a wasp. But Reece liked his ink and worked hard for his body. And more than a few of the blokes down The Lighthouse, Worthbridge’s favourite gay haunt and his personal release valve when the pressure built too high, appreciated it.
He feigned a left. Miller flinched. Reece grinned.
“Jesus, Reece,” Stephanie, the station’s lone female among a sea of male posturing, called from the sidelines, stripping off her gear after drills. “Save some ego for the shift, yeah?”
“Can’t. It’s all I’ve got left now. I’m thirty-five and single.”
“Can’t imagine why.” Steph rolled her eyes.
Reece didn’t miss a beat, and he dodged another swing, then cuffed Miller on the ear. “Some of us are picky.”
“And some of us get caught chatting up uni girls during their kitchen fire last week.” Ahmed, their watch manager, entered with a clipboard and no patience. “Wrap it up. We’ve got gear checks in ten.”
“Tell the girls to stop sliding into my DMs, then,” Reece shot back, peeling off his gloves.
Standard banter. That’s all it was. Let them say what they liked. Playboy, flirt, a walking HR complaint in a half-zipped turnout jacket. It kept things simple. Easy. He could let off steam from the day job… or night job, when the flames didn’t wait for daylight. And if anyone asked, that wasn’t smoke rising off his skin, it was the heat he carried everywhere he went. But everyone knew it was mostly the girls doing the chasing these days. And yeah, he flipped the coin when the mood struck, but if his crewmates thought he was hanging around uni halls or flirting with anyone still living off instant noodles and TikTok trends, they could think again.
Because with women, he liked them older. Experienced. Knew what they wanted and didn’t mind telling him where to go if he got cheeky. And men… well. He’d had his share. Enough to know his type and enough sense to pretend he didn’t. Because that was easier, wasn’t it? Safer. No strings, no drama. Just a few laughs, a few drinks, and if the night got hot enough, a name he’d forget by morning.
Better that than wanting the one bloke who never stayed long enough to be anything more.
And Christ, wasn’t that the story of his life?
He caught Miller’s shoulder and gave him a slap. “Good round. You nearly tickled me.”
Miller flipped him the bird.
Reece dragged a towel across his face, the sweat cooling fast, then tipped back a swig from his dented water bottle. The station wasn’t much. Peeling paint, buzzing lights in the locker room, but it was home. He’d worked here for over ten years, so long that he’d scrawled his name on gear, tools and even the dartboard in the rec room to claim some authority. Cause he wasn’t climbing any ladders that didn’t lead to a burning roof. Command never interested him. Let someone else chase promotions and paperwork. Reece led when it counted. On the ground, in the heat, when decisions were life or death. He had no time for titles or the politics that came with them. Watch Manager? Not a chance. He’d rather be the one kicking down the door than the one signing off the risk assessment that allowed them to do so.
So this place? Suited him perfectly. Faded red brick held together by history and habit, peeling paint in the showers no one bothered to fix, a common room sofa with more stains than cushions, and a kettle that let out a banshee’s wail every time it boiled. Rough around the edges. Worn in. But still standing. Still working.
Like him.
A voice crackled over the intercom before he could even drop the gloves.
“All crews. Fire call. Report of fire in residential block. Persons reported. Repeat: persons reported.”
One heartbeat. That’s all it took. Playtime was over. Lads, joking like schoolboys, snapped straight into soldiers. It always went like this. Gear thrown on, boots slammed into, trousers yanked up, braces snapped over shoulders, jackets shrugged into without hesitation. The tension changed. Became taut. Focused. Serious. Every one of them moving as if their next breath depended on it. Because somewhere, it might.
And this was Reece’s town. He wouldn’t watch it burn.
“Steph, Chris!” Ahmed had already pulled his helmet on. “You’re BA one with me. Reece, you’re BA two with Miller. Let’s move.”
Reece nodded, boots hitting the tarmac as they jogged for the appliance. His heart pounded. Not from adrenaline. Not yet.
It started when he heard the address.
Woodrow Crescent. That block had problems. Cheap construction. Cluttered stairwells. Old tenants and young single mums. Cladding. He’d turned up to enough minor incidents there. Reece knew the address too well.
He swung into the back of the engine, clipped in, checked the Breathing Apparatus set at his feet. The harness tightened automatically, mask clipped to the side, air cylinder at the ready. Over his shoulder, Steph ran through the rapid donning drill they’d all done a hundred times. Reece could do this with his eyes closed.
The siren screamed. They rolled out.
Worthbridge’s tangled backstreets tore past the window as the engine’s tyres hissed over slick tarmac, spraying dirty water into the guttered hush of June heat. Sirens howled ahead of them, scattering pigeons and slicing through the thick, salt-heavy air. Outside the cab, the town streaked past in flashes of rust and weary blue with paint-chipped doors, bowed terrace roofs, and satellite dishes clinging like barnacles to walls long surrendered to the sea air. It was the start of summer. And Worthbridge didn’t cope well in the summer. The kids were nearing the end of term with sports days and outdoor fetes. The pavements were full. Doors left open. Windows flung wide.
Which meant today there was more to burn.
“Report says smoke issuing from the second floor,” Miller called from the front. “Flat sixteen. Elderly female, possible mobility issues.”
“Understood.” Reece’s pulse climbed. This was the calm before the storm.
As they turned onto Woodrow Crescent, smoke curled up from the upper windows of a block of flats. Thick and black, spiralling as if it had a mind of its own, clawing its way into the sky. Residents spilled onto the pavement in dressing gowns and slippers, some barefoot, wide-eyed and shouting over each other, voices lost to the rising sirens.
The fire wasn’t only in the building. It was in the air. The tension. The waiting. And Worthbridge, however battered, brined, and barely holding together, might finally burn beyond saving.
Not on his watch.
“Morgan, you’re with me.” Miller pointed at him. “BA entry through the stairwell second floor.”
“Yes, boss!”
“Steph! Grab the hydrant. Chris, set into the dry riser. You’re on the branch. Let’s move!”
They were at the door in seconds, full BA sets on, face masks sealed, comms checked.
“Ready on air.”
“BA Entry. Team Two, committed. Two in.”
They entered.
The stairwell was a tunnel of smoke where visibility dropped to a hand in front of the face. Heat licked Reece’s gear. Not enough to be dangerous but promising it would get there soon. So he and Miller climbed fast, avoiding the clutter on the landings. A collapsed clothes horse. A child’s plastic ride-on car. Some idiot had left rubbish bags in the corner again. They’d dealt with this block before.
“Flat sixteen,” Miller called through the comms.
Reece found the door and tensed. Smoke bled from the seams.
He braced himself, then drove his shoulder into the wood. Once. Twice. The second hit splintered it, the frame groaning as it gave and smoke rolled out in greasy curls, swallowing his boots. As his mask hissed with each breath, the regulator rhythm sharp in his ears, he flung up his torch, the beam cutting through the murk, and stepped inside. Heat pressed in and Reece swept right, eyes focused as he tracked movement through the shifting black.
Then Miller said, “Paramedics on scene.”
And Reece’s pulse spiked for a whole different reason.
“Tell them to hold at the cordon,” he called back, knowing full well one of them might attempt to break that safe zone.
So he turned back to the smoke. To what he could handle.
Heat rose fast as he crawled through the flat and found the tenant collapsed in the hallway, semi-conscious. Miller radioed for assistance, and they extracted her together, Reece cradling her head, easing her out over debris, while smoke curled tighter, hotter, pressing in like fingers around a throat. So they moved fast, down through the haze, feet thudding the stairwell.
Then there, at the base of the stairs, behind the safety tape, high-vis jacket half-zipped, was the very paramedic in question. Trent. In full greens, backlit by the rig’s blue lights. Reece’s mouth went dry. Not from the heat. But from him. Because in that look he gave, there was something unreadable at first. Recognition, maybe. Then softer. As if he’d hoped it might be Reece coming down those stairs. But it vanished. Replaced by the cold professionalism he wore like armour.
“Elderly female. Semi-conscious. Smoke inhalation.” Reece eased the woman into Trent’s waiting arms, careful, efficient, but the moment their hands met, the contact sparked hotter than the flames behind them.
Too long. Always too long.
And Reece felt it. Like he always did. Every damn time.
But Trent gave nothing away. Not a sliver of recognition. Or a glance lingering after it should. Only a maddening calm as he helped the woman onto the gurney. And right there, in the middle of smoke and sirens, Reece remembered exactly why playing the part of the cocky playboy was easier. Safer.
Better than this slow-burn purgatory Trent kept him locked in.
The woman groaned, coughing, and Trent kicked into action.
“We’ve got her.” Then to his crew, “Let’s go. Airway, O2, BP. I’ll ride in.”
Reece watched him a beat too long, caught in the quiet intensity of him. His steady hands. Careful touch. And that familiar furrow between his brows. And his hair. Unruly blond curls caught the light as if they held their own private blaze. Trent Lawson was a soft, golden fire, burning as bright as the one Reece had never quite put out.
Same as it always is.
Trent turned back to his patient, and reality yanked Reece back into line. Do the job. Put out fires, don’t start them. Especially not the ones roaring to life in his chest, and lower, every damn time he caught sight of a certain paramedic poured into figure-hugging greens. Sometimes he swore Trent did it on purpose. Moved just right, looked just wrong. Utterly off-limits and completely irresistible in the same breath. He didn’t even realise he was the walking definition of Reece’s worst idea… and his favourite temptation.
When the last of the flames died to steam and the thermal imaging confirmed nothing but smouldering heat signatures, Reece peeled off his BA set with a grunt. His shoulders were stiff and lungs raw from the heavy air. He should’ve headed for a bottle of water and a quiet corner to cool off, but his feet took him where they always did.
Towards him.
Despite Miller yelling at him. “Morgan! You’ve still got debrief and hose rolls. Stop eye fucking the greens!”
Reece flipped him off.
Trent was inside the ambulance, his greens stained and clinging in all the right places, sleeves shoved up to his elbows as he worked. His gloved hands moved steadily over the elderly woman’s fragile frame, checking vitals, adjusting the oxygen mask cradled to her face. For a man who’d spent the last half hour knee-deep in chaos, he still looked annoyingly perfect.
And fuckable.
Really fucking fuckable.
But it wasn’t just that…even if that’s all it would ever be.
Reece knocked on the edge of the back doors, then poked his head in. Trent’s spine snapped straight, pastel blue eyes holding far too much exhaustion and not enough relief. He kinda hated that look. Cause he knew what those blue eyes looked like when they were blown wide with something else entirely.
“She okay?” Reece asked, voice rougher than it should’ve been.
Yeah, he cared about the woman. Of course he did. But really, this was an excuse. One more moment. One more shot at breaking through whatever wall Trent had built between them.
“Hold the line a sec, Liv?” Trent spoke to his crewmate. Reece had met Liv on many occasions too, and she was checking the IV and adjusting the oxygen line. The woman was conscious, shallow gasps whispering beneath the mask. Stable enough for a moment. “Will give the report to fire. Then I’ll take the wheel.”
Liv nodded without looking up. “We’re good for a minute. Go on.”
Trent nodded then stepped to the ambulance’s open doors and jumped down, landing so close his head was practically level with Reece’s chest. A dangerous proximity. It was almost impossible for Reece not to want to drag him in. He was too damn tempting. All lean muscle and coiled tension, like a firecracker begging for a spark. Trouble with a capital T, packaged in the deceptive innocence of an angel.
Reece ached to taste every inch of him.
“Smoke inhalation,” Trent said. “Superficial burns on her hands and forearms. Probably trying to fight her way through the heat before she went down. Dehydrated. She’s lucky you got to her when you did.”
She’s lucky you’re the one looking after her.
“She’ll be alright, then, yeah?”
Trent snapped off his gloves with a sharp crack of latex. “We’re stabilising her now. She needs fluids and respiratory support, but we’ll have her ready for transfer to Worthbridge Burns. Liv’ll ride with her.”
Reece forced a nod, but the relief didn’t settle before the familiar hollow ache twisted under his ribs. He shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t want to ask. But Christ, this was always the problem with Trent. One look and every sensible thought went up in flames right along with the wreckage behind them. And Reece knew, deep down, it wasn’t entirely his fault.
“Trent…” His name left his lips before he could think better of it, boots crunching over broken glass and scorched debris to step closer.
Trent turned, half a step already towards the ambulance, attention locked on the patient. Anywhere but on him. Maybe it was the aftermath. Reece looked a fucking mess. He knew he did. The thick weight of his fire jacket hung open, unzipped, torched helmet dangling from his fingers, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, and his dark T-shirt clung to his chest, damp and streaked with soot. But Reece couldn’t help himself. He curled an ash-smeared glove around Trent’s arm, anyway.
“How long are we gonna keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
Reece stepped in closer, the acrid bite of smoke curling thick between them, heat still radiating off the twisted wreckage nearby. “Pretending we’re nothing…”
Trent swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes darting nervously towards the crews regrouping near the engines. And fuck, that glance cut deep. As if Reece was something to be hidden. A shame to be scrubbed off like grime after a hard shift.
“We’re at work, Reece.” Trent turned those beautiful blues back on him. “We’re on the same job, same emergency. That’s all this is. It’s not bloody serendipity. We’re colleagues.”
Reece lowered his voice, rasping into Trent’s ear. “Colleagues who fuck.”
Trent flinched as if the word physically hit him. He darted his gaze to the ambulance, to the woman clinging to life, then back to the crews.
Reece rolled his eyes. “What? You don’t want anyone to know you crawl to me in the dark to chase your nightmares away? That under all this smoke and sweat, you’re burning just as bad as I am?”
“Don’t.”
That one word hit harder than any punch Reece had ever taken in the station’s makeshift ring. Straight to the chest, clean through to the bone. Because he knew. Knew this was more than Trent would ever admit out loud. That the fire between them, lit months ago and burning hotter with every reckless encounter, wasn’t snuffing out anytime soon. He wasn’t imagining this. It wasn’t one-sided. It couldn’t be. Not with the way Trent came apart in his arms, not with the heat flaring every time they collided.
But right now…all he felt was ice.
Trent didn’t even have the common courtesy to look at him when he said, “It won’t happen again.”
Radios crackled faintly in the distance, the soft hiss of smouldering ruins bleeding into the charged silence, but it was how Trent stepped back, heading for the ambulance as if it was the only cover left in a battle he couldn’t bring himself to fight, that had Reece physically exhausted.
“You’re full of shit, Trent.”
Trent stopped, his back to him, dipping his head. Then, when he turned, there was no bravado left. Only a faint reveal of the man Reece only ever saw in the dead of night, when the world was quiet and the fight had drained out of them both.
“And you’re still looking for a hero in every fuck you take.”
Reece flinched, the words landing sharp, no room for misinterpretation. He opened his mouth, the comeback ready, wounded pride coiled like a spring, but Trent didn’t wait. He reached for the back doors and slammed them with a force that stole the air from Reece’s lungs, the finality of it cutting like a guillotine.
Then lights flashed. Siren wailed.
And Reece stood there, alone in the wreckage, ash on his tongue and regret burning thick in his throat. By the time the ambulance disappeared into the night, only one thing remained. That same truth, curling like smoke through the hollow of his chest.
Trent Lawson was still the only fire he couldn’t put out.
