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The street was lined with banks of snow, piled high from the storm earlier in the week. Footpaths were slick with patches of ice and snow, while the roads bore only the slushy remnants of winter’s fury. Matt stood by the window, gazing out at the small paved area behind their apartment. It was a far cry from the garden he had at his old house. He missed it—the space, the greenery. But the apartment with Severide was good too, it was helpful living with someone, not being alone. Here, the barbecue was buried under a thick layer of snow, the bikes leaned against the wall, their frames coated in frost. No footprints marred the pristine surface; the area had been untouched since the snowfall last week.
He sipped his coffee, letting the warmth seep into him as he took in the quiet scene. Movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he turned to see Kelly pulling on a jacket.
“You off?” Matt asked, setting his mug on the windowsill.
“Hitting the gym,” he replied, tugging on his gloves. “Wanna join?”
Matt shook his head, suppressing a smile. “Went for a run last night.” He leaned against the kitchen island, crossing his arms.
Kelly raised an eyebrow. “You’re crazy. I’d never run in this.” He gestured toward the frosted window with a slight shake of his head, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Should join me at the gym next time.”
“Maybe,” Matt said noncommittally, watching as Kelly zipped up his coat.
Kelly gave him an amused look before heading for the door. “Suit yourself.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and Matt turned back to the kitchen. He pulled a box of cereal from the cabinet and went to the fridge, already knowing what he’d find—or rather, what he wouldn’t.
“Damnit, Kelly…” he muttered under his breath, staring at the empty spot where the milk should have been. He wasn’t surprised. This happened way too often, but it still annoyed him. Resigned, he poured the cereal into a bowl and carried it to the couch with a large glass of orange juice in hand. Dry cereal wasn’t ideal, but it would do.
He sank into the cushions, switching on the news channel as he crunched on his makeshift breakfast. Outside, the snow-covered barbecue and untouched ground caught his eye again. He sighed. He really should get out there and tackle the cold—shovel the path or something. Anything to be productive. But the thought of stepping out into the icy Chicago air made him shiver, even from inside.
God, he hated the cold. He’d grown up in Chicago, lived here his entire life, and yet every winter hit him like a slap in the face. It didn’t matter how prepared he thought he was—thick jackets, insulated boots, thermal everything—he was never ready when the first real freeze settled in. Still, as much as he despised it, the idea of leaving Chicago for a warmer climate had never seriously crossed his mind. Maybe a vacation during the worst weeks would be a good idea, but moving permanently? No way. This was home, frostbite and all.
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Matt stepped outside, the icy wind cutting through his gloves like they weren’t even there. He grimaced as he approached his truck, already dreading the process of scraping off the thick layer of frost that had settled overnight. The scraper in his hand felt cold enough to burn, but he worked quickly, his movements efficient and practiced. He’d built in extra time for this; he always did. Being late for shift wasn’t an option—not for him. As a leader, he believed in leading by example.
He couldn’t help but think of Kelly as he worked, smirking faintly at the thought. His best friend managed to waltz into the firehouse late at least once a month, usually with some half-baked excuse that made the others roll their eyes. Matt had his suspicions—it was probably a woman. Kelly had a way of charming people without even trying, and Matt figured some girl at the gym had likely delayed him more than once. At least one of them took the rules seriously, Matt thought dryly as he chipped away at a particularly stubborn patch of ice.
Control was everything to him. It wasn’t just about being on time or sticking to schedules; it was about holding the chaos of life at bay. Staying on top of things gave him a sense of order, a way to manage the unpredictable. But as much as he tried, Matt knew better than anyone that some things were simply out of his hands.
The thought sent a flicker of unease through him as he paused, watching his breath fog in the freezing air. He hated that feeling—helplessness. It wasn’t something he let show, but it gnawed at him, especially during the long, cold Chicago winters, when everything seemed a little heavier.
Shaking the thought away, Matt focused on the task at hand. The windshield was clear now, and he gave the truck one last look-over before climbing inside, grateful to finally escape the biting wind. As he started the engine, the heater roared to life, promising eventual warmth. For now, though, the cold clung to him like a stubborn shadow, a reminder that no matter how much control he fought to maintain, some things would always find a way to seep through the cracks.
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The tanker came out of nowhere. One moment the lights were green, and Matt was pressing on the gas, focused on the road ahead. The next, there was a deafening roar, and the jarring force of impact sent his truck spinning uncontrollably. He barely registered the blur of motion around him as he fought the wheel, his hands gripping it tightly, desperate to regain control. But the spin was relentless, the weight of the impact overpowering any attempt to steady the vehicle.
The truck hit the curb with a sickening jolt, and everything tilted as it flipped onto its side. Pain exploded through Matt’s arm, sharp and searing, as metal twisted and glass shattered. His breath left him in a strangled gasp before darkness claimed him, pulling him under.
The truck crumpled beneath the sheer weight and force of the tanker, folding like paper. It skidded across the road, spinning into a wall as buckled metal screeched in protest. Glass fragments rained down like shards of ice, scattering around Matt’s unconscious, bleeding form. The faint sound of groaning metal and the hiss of steam escaped into the frozen air, a ghostly echo of the violent collision.
At the intersection, cars and trucks had come to an abrupt standstill, drivers stunned by the scene unfolding before them. Someone honked a horn in shock, but it was quickly drowned out by the sound of frantic voices and ringing phones. A crowd began to form at the edges of the crash, hesitant and wide-eyed, unsure of whether to approach.
“Call 911!” someone shouted, breaking the spell of frozen silence. A man in a thick winter coat fumbled with his phone, relaying details to the dispatcher as others moved cautiously closer, their breath visible in the cold air.
The sirens came quickly, the familiar wail cutting through the frigid Chicago morning. Red and blue lights reflected off the icy pavement, illuminating the destruction.
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Matt couldn't see. Panic swelled in his chest as he blinked rapidly, trying to force his vision to clear. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, but the darkness persisted. Disoriented, he became aware of a low, guttural sound-groaning, pained and unrelenting. It took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own lips.
His breath hitched as he shakily raised his right hand to his face, the motion sending a sharp jolt of pain through his shoulder.
Wiping at his eyes, he blinked again. This time, his vision cleared. The destruction around him came into brutal focus.
He was lying on his left side, trapped within the crumpled remains of his truck. Blood streaked the now-deflated airbag, the vibrant red standing out starkly against the white fabric. Shattered glass glittered around him, pieces embedded in his coat and pressed against his cheek. Every breath he took was shallow and laboured, his chest painfully constricted by the seatbelt. It felt like the strap was cutting through him, digging so deeply he half-expected to see blood when he looked down. But logic told him that wasn't possible-not through the three layers of clothing he'd bundled up in before leaving the house.
He tried to move, but the effort sent a fresh wave of agony ripping through his left side. His ribs screamed in protest, and he let out a ragged gasp, his body trembling uncontrollably. The pain was blinding, radiating outward like a fire spreading through his entire torso.
For a moment, he let his head fall back against the shattered window, his breaths coming in uneven bursts. The cold air seeped in through the cracks in the frame, chilling him to the bone despite the layers he wore. His mind struggled to process the chaos around him-the shattered glass, the twisted metal, the blood smeared across the dashboard.
His fingers flexed weakly, brushing against the jagged surface beneath him. The crunch of glass beneath his hand was sharp and unnerving, and he winced, his nerves raw from the sensory overload.
Everything hurt.
His head pounded, his side burned, and his legs felt like dead weight. But worse than the physical pain was the fear creeping into the edges of his mind-the fear that he might not get out of this.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. “Stay calm,” he muttered to himself, though his voice was hoarse and unsteady. He needed to stay focused, needed to find a way to move, to get out of the truck. But his body betrayed him, every attempt to shift sending fresh pain spiralling through him.
Matt's shaking worsened, whether from the cold, the shock, or both, he couldn't tell. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mingling with the acrid smell of burnt rubber and gasoline.
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“Sir, can you hear me?” a voice called into the crumpled remains of the truck, firm but calm. “Sir?”
Matt blinked sluggishly, his vision still blurred. “Yeah,” he croaked, his voice rough from the effort. He swiped at his eyes again, wiping away more blood that trickled from a cut on his forehead.
“Good,” the voice said with relief. “My name’s Laura Edwards. I’m a paramedic. Firefighters are on their way, and we’re going to get you out of here!” Her tone was reassuring, cutting through the haze of pain and confusion that surrounded him. “What’s your name?”
“Matt Casey,” he answered, more clearly this time, forcing his voice to steady.
“Okay, Matt, we’re going to take good care of you. How are you feeling? Can you tell me what’s hurting?” she asked, her voice still audible through the jagged gaps in the crumpled metal.
Matt took a slow, shaky breath, mentally cataloguing his injuries. “Left clavicle’s broken,” he said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact. “Arm’s broken too. Got intermittent feeling in my hand. Pretty sure that’s it.”
There was a brief pause. “You a doctor?” Laura asked, her tone lighter now, almost impressed.
“Lieutenant, Firehouse 51,” Matt replied, his words clipped but clear. As if on cue, the wail of approaching sirens reached his ears, growing louder by the second. Relief flickered in his chest. Kelly was probably on that truck, heading his way.
“Well, Lieutenant, you know the drill then,” Laura said, her voice edged with a small smile, though her professionalism remained steadfast. “Hang tight for me. We’re going to get you out safely.”
He heard muffled voices outside as Laura relayed his condition to her team, the words blending with the faint hum of activity around the crash site. Then her voice came again, louder and directed back at him. “Matt, I’ll be back with you in just a moment, okay? Sit tight.”
“Got it,” he muttered, his throat dry. The brief interaction had drained what little energy he had left, and the silence that followed felt deafening.
The truck groaned and shifted slightly under the tanker’s weight, a haunting sound that sent a spike of anxiety through Matt’s chest. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm, but every creak of metal felt like a countdown.
Alone in the wreckage, Matt wiped more blood from his forehead with a trembling hand. The movement was sluggish, the pain in his left arm flaring with every small motion. He could still feel shards of glass embedded in his jacket, their sharp edges pressing into him with every shallow breath. Time seemed to stretch on endlessly as he waited, the muffled voices outside a distant comfort.
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At the firehouse, the morning hum of activity filled the common room as firefighters went about their routines. Herrmann strode in, his brows furrowed and arms crossed. He stopped just inside the room, scanning the space.
“Where’s Casey?” Herrmann asked, his tone sharp with concern.
Kelly glanced up from his newspaper, his legs casually stretched out as if the world couldn’t rush him. He raised an eyebrow at Herrmann’s tone but shrugged nonchalantly. “Dunno.”
Herrmann narrowed his eyes. “You live together,” he pointed out, his hands now resting on his hips, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice.
Kelly folded the newspaper in half and set it down on the table beside him. “Came straight from the gym,” he said, his tone casual but with a flicker of unease beneath it. He knew Matt’s punctuality was almost compulsive. It wasn’t like him to be late—not even by a few minutes.
Kelly reached for his phone, flipping it over in his hand as if debating whether to make the call. Matt’s lateness wasn’t alarming just yet; after all, it was barely 8 a.m., and shift didn’t officially start for a few more minutes. But still, it was… unusual. That was enough to gnaw at Kelly’s instincts, that ever-present sixth sense honed over years on the job.
He thumbed through his contacts and hit Matt’s number, pressing the phone to his ear. The line rang, once, twice, then again. No answer. He frowned, glancing at the clock on the wall.
“Straight to voicemail,” Kelly muttered, lowering the phone and staring at the screen for a moment before slipping it into his pocket. His unease deepened, though he kept his expression neutral.
Herrmann’s eyes narrowed further, his arms folding tighter across his chest. “Not like him to be late. You sure everything’s okay?”
Kelly stood, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he said, though the reassurance felt hollow even as he said it. “Probably just stuck in traffic or something.”
“Casey?” Herrmann asked sceptically, clearly not buying it. “You and I both know he plans his mornings down to the minute. He leaves early enough to beat traffic. Always has.”
Kelly didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he mulled it over. Herrmann was right. Matt’s obsession with being on time—if not early—was part of what made him such a solid leader.
Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, Kelly cast one more glance at the clock before heading for the bay. “I’ll try him again,” he called over his shoulder, his voice a little firmer now.
Herrmann followed a few steps behind, his concern etched clearly on his face. Something wasn’t adding up, and they both knew it. Kelly hit Matt’s number again as he walked, the unanswered rings sounding louder and heavier with each passing second.
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Matt could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket, a muted buzz against his hip that only served to frustrate him further. He couldn’t reach it, couldn’t even shift his weight to try. No doubt it was Boden, wondering why he was late. He was never late. At least being crushed and pinned by a tanker was a valid excuse for tardiness, though he’d give anything not to need it.
The sharp, searing pain in his arm had dulled to a throbbing ache, though he knew it was a temporary reprieve. Any attempt to move would send a fresh wave of agony tearing through his battered body. The position he was lying in was unbearable—glass digging into his skin, his ribs protesting every shallow breath—but moving wasn’t an option. Not yet. Not until someone pulled him out of this mess.
A voice cut through the haze. “Lieutenant Casey, it’s Captain Innes. How you holding up?”
Matt forced his eyes open, blinking against the streaks of blood still trickling down his forehead. His throat was dry, his voice raspy when he answered, “How bad is it?”
There was a pause before the Captain replied. “The tanker’s pinned you against the building. My crew’s stabilizing it right now.”
Matt swallowed, forcing himself to stay focused. “Is it leaking?” he asked, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his chest.
Another pause, longer this time, before the Captain spoke again. “Yes.”
Matt closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. He already knew the answer to his next question, but he had to ask. “What’s in it?” The silence that followed was telling. “It’s fuel, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Innes confirmed, his tone grim.
Matt nodded faintly to himself, his mind racing through the implications. “The driver?” he asked, curious if they were in the same predicament—or if he was the only one left trapped under a ton of mangled metal.
“Out and on his way to Lakeshore,” Innes replied.
So, just him then. “Anyone else?” Matt started, though he already suspected the answer.
“No one else,” the Captain assured him.
“Okay,” Matt murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion. Every part of his body screamed at him to just give in, to close his eyes and let unconsciousness pull him under. But he couldn’t. He knew better. If he gave in now, there might not be a way back. He had to stay awake, had to stay aware of what was happening around him.
“Gonna send a paramedic in,” Innes said. “They’ll stabilize you and get you some painkillers.”
Matt’s head shook faintly against the broken glass beneath him. “No… not stable,” he managed, his voice weak but insistent. He couldn’t risk the tanker shifting, couldn’t risk another movement causing sparks near the leaking fuel.
“Let me run my own scene, Lieutenant,” Innes said lightly, though his voice carried the authority of someone used to being in charge. “You just sit back, relax, and watch my expertise.”
A ghost of a smile flickered across Matt’s face despite the pain. He didn’t have the strength to argue, and truthfully, he trusted Innes to handle the situation. All he had to do was hold on. Just a little longer.
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A few feet away from the wreckage, the firefighters had gathered, their faces tense as they assessed the situation. The tanker had been stabilised, its hulking mass no longer threatening to shift further, but the danger was far from over. The strong smell of fuel lingered in the icy air, sharp and unnerving, a constant reminder of the volatile situation they were dealing with. One of the ambulances was already enroute to the nearest hospital, but it wouldn’t matter if they couldn’t get Matt out in time—or safely.
Captain Innes approached his crew, his boots crunching against the scattered glass and debris. His face was set, the lines of worry etched deeply into his brow. “He’s still alert and calm,” he said, his voice steady but clipped, his eyes flicking toward the crushed front end of the truck. “We need to keep him that way. It’s going to be a while before we can get him out, and I can see a lot of blood.”
His gaze swept over the crew, each of them standing ready, tools in hand, waiting for the next orders. “Hand tools only,” Innes continued, his tone firm. “We do not want this going up in flames. No sparks. No chances. Everyone stays sharp.”
The gravity of his words hung in the air, the crew exchanging quick, silent glances. They all knew the risk—one wrong move, one errant spark, and the fuel could ignite. It wasn’t just Matt’s life on the line; they were all standing in the shadow of a potential explosion.
Innes turned to one of his more experienced firefighters, Edwards, and gestured toward the wreckage. “Edwards, get in there. Stabilize him as best you can and get him some oxygen. But keep your exit clear. If anything shifts, I want you out fast.”
“Yes, Captain,” Edwards replied without hesitation, already moving to gather what he needed.
Innes turned back to the crew. “The rest of you, prep the area. I want a clear path for extraction. Every second is going to count once we’re ready to pull him out.”
Edwards slipped carefully through the small gap in the wreckage, moving with practiced precision as she made her way to Matt. Glass crunched under her boots as she positioned herself behind him, wedged between the crumpled wall and the back of his truck. The jagged remains of the shattered window glinted in the dim light. Most of the glass was already gone, but she broke away the larger shards, tossing them to the side before leaning in.
“Matt, you still with us? You remember my name?” she asked, her tone firm but gentle, trying to gauge his level of consciousness.
“Laura. I’m alright,” Matt replied, his voice steady but strained. His eyes flicked toward her, his face pale and slick with blood. “You shouldn’t stay in here. It’s not safe.”
“Offended you don’t want my company, Matt,” she quipped lightly, a faint smirk playing at her lips as she worked. It was easier to keep things light, to distract him from the reality of the situation.
Reaching into the front of the cab, she carefully slipped a cervical collar around his neck, securing it snugly. Her movements were awkward in the confined space, and she grimaced as she reached back toward her kit for an IV bag. “Just some saline,” she said, her tone casual.
“Because I’m bleeding out,” Matt interjected, finishing the sentence for her. “And you think I’m gonna be stuck here for a while.”
“Something like that,” she said, refusing to confirm. “Let me be the judge of how bad it is.”
He flinched slightly as she inserted the IV, his breathing uneven as the sharp prick of the needle cut through the numbing haze of pain.
“Bleeding’s just from my head,” Matt said, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. His lips twitched into the faintest smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. If Kelly had heard him downplay it like that, there’d be hell to pay later.
“Sure, just your head,” she said dryly, keeping her voice steady as she secured the line. “What house did you say you were with, Matt?” she asked, her hands working methodically as she prepped the next bandage. She wanted to keep him talking—anything to keep him alert.
“51. Truck 81,” Matt replied, his words a little slower now. “Was on my way to shift… making you guys do overtime, right?”
“That’s right,” she said, glancing at his face as she worked. His skin was pale and clammy, and the way his eyelids drooped had her worried. She pressed a bandage to the laceration on his head, the gauze quickly soaking red.
“How’s Innes know you?” she asked casually, hoping to keep him focused.
Matt frowned, the crease in his brow deepening as he tried to process the question. His head felt like it was splitting apart, every word catching in his throat. “What?”
“How’d you know Captain Innes?” she repeated, adjusting the bandage and securing it as best she could. Blood seeped through almost instantly.
“Oh… uh… he used to… used to help organize the CFD boxing training,” Matt said, his voice growing thick and heavy. Each word felt like a struggle, the air around him pressing in tighter. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep going.
“You box?”
“Not anymore,” he added after a pause. The words hung in the air, unspoken context clear to anyone who knew about his head injury.
Her gaze flicked to his left arm, noting the awkward angle and the strain it put on his broken collarbone. She could only imagine the pain he was in, pinned down by his own weight and the crushing force of the seatbelt. “How’s the pain?” she asked, pulling a dose of morphine from her kit and readying it.
“No,” Matt muttered, shaking his head weakly. “Wanna… wanna stay awake.”
She hesitated, her hand hovering over the syringe. She didn’t like it, but she respected his choice. “Okay,” she said gently. “But you let me know if it gets worse, all right?”
He nodded faintly, his trembling worsening despite his best efforts to appear composed. Blood continued to seep through the bandage, a stark reminder of how precarious his condition was. Laura glanced back toward the gap where the team was working, silently willing them to move faster.
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“Lieutenant, how you doing in there?” Captain Innes called into the mangled truck, his voice steady and loud enough to carry through the wreckage.
From inside, Matt’s faint reply came, tinged with a hint of dry humour despite his situation. “Someone should really fix the heating in this place.”
Innes couldn’t help but huff a small laugh, a flicker of relief that Matt was still lucid enough to crack a joke. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll get right on that,” he shot back, glancing toward Edwards, who was crouched near the twisted frame of the cab. “Edwards?” he prompted, his tone turning more serious.
She adjusted her position slightly, keeping an eye on Matt’s vitals as she replied. “He’s in and out, but he’s hanging in there,” she called back, her voice carrying over the hum of activity around them. “ETA?”
Innes glanced toward the crew working tirelessly to cut through the wreckage without disturbing the fragile stability of the tanker. “Shouldn’t be too long now until we get you out safely,” he assured her, though the tension in his voice betrayed how delicate the situation was.
Inside the truck, Matt frowned, his brow furrowing as her words registered. “I’m in and out?” he asked, his voice weaker now, frustration threading through his tone.
“You’re doing well, Matt,” Edwards interjected quickly, her voice calm and soothing. “Not much longer now. They’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Matt swallowed hard, his breaths shallow and uneven as he tried to focus. The pain was starting to claw at the edges of his consciousness again, breaking through the haze. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew it was getting harder to stay grounded.
Edwards reached into her kit, preparing a syringe. “Gonna give you something for the pain now,” she said firmly, not giving him room to argue. She could see the strain etched into his features, the way his body trembled involuntarily from the effort of staying conscious. “Don’t even think about trying to talk me out of it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Matt murmured, though his attempt at humour fell flat. His head lolled slightly to the side, and Edwards caught the faint hitch in his breathing. She worked quickly, injecting the morphine and keeping her movements steady despite the cramped, unstable conditions.
“That’s it,” she said softly, watching his face as the medication began to take effect. “Just hang in there, Matt. Almost through this.”
Outside, the cutting tools buzzed as the crew worked methodically, their focus unshakable. Innes kept a close eye on the operation, his radio crackling with updates. The tanker loomed over them, a constant, menacing presence, but they were making progress. Slowly but surely, they were getting closer to Matt.
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It felt like forever since Matt had been scraping ice off his truck that morning, muttering curses under his breath about the bitter cold. Now, the chill had seeped into his very core, and no amount of layering or toughing it out could push it away. He was so cold, so tired. Each shallow breath sent wisps of condensation swirling in the frigid air around him, the sight almost mesmerising if not for the dire situation he was in.
His left hand was completely numb now, the lack of sensation a quiet but ominous confirmation of the damage to his arm. He didn’t dare look down, didn’t want to see the twisted angle or the bruising that he knew was there. He clenched his jaw, willing the pain to stay at bay just a little longer. At least he’d be out soon. That thought became a mantra. Just a little longer, and they’d pull him from this crushed tomb of metal and glass and load him into a warm ambulance on the way to an even warmer ER. He longed for that heat, for the soothing relief of feeling his body thaw and his muscles relax.
The space he was trapped in felt impossibly small, a suffocating cocoon of twisted metal and jagged glass. He couldn’t move much, pinned in place by the crushed frame and the seatbelt that had saved his life but now felt like it was cutting into his chest. Edwards had struggled earlier, her hands fumbling to attach the cervical collar around his neck and stem the bleeding from the laceration on his forehead. He’d felt her frustration, even though she’d masked it well, her voice calm and steady.
And then, because fate clearly had a cruel sense of humour, Matt’s stomach dropped as a faint, sharp odour tickled his nose. His heart sank. Oh God. He knew that smell. “You smell that?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. He half-hoped he was imagining it, a hallucination conjured by his concussion.
Edwards froze for a second, then sniffed the air. Her voice rose immediately. “Captain! We’ve got a fuel leak in here!” she called out, her tone urgent.
Matt exhaled shakily, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “that might fix the heating problem at least.”
“Edwards, get out of there,” Captain Innes barked from outside the wreckage. His voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. Matt had expected the order—it’s what he would’ve done if their roles were reversed. Still, the thought of being left alone gnawed at the edges of his composure.
“Captain, I can—” Edwards began, but the Captain cut her off.
“Do what he says,” Matt interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her. “I can keep myself company. Don’t worry about me.”
She hesitated, her eyes scanning his pale, bloodied face. The stubborn determination in his gaze was familiar—it was the look of a man used to putting others before himself, no matter the cost. It made her want to argue, to insist she stay, but she knew better. She gave a curt nod, her lips pressing into a tight line.
“I’ll be right outside, Matt,” Edwards said softly, her voice softer now. “Just hold on.”
“Not going anywhere,” he replied with a faint smirk, his breath shallow.
She slipped out of the wreckage carefully, glancing back once to see him still watching her, his resolve unbroken despite the pain etched across his face.
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“Matt?” Edwards called, her voice cutting through the tense air. She hadn’t heard anything from him for a few minutes now, and the silence was gnawing at her nerves. “Matt, can you hear me?”
Nothing. The oppressive quiet that followed made her stomach twist. She leaned closer to the wreckage, her gloved hand brushing against the jagged edges of the truck’s frame as she strained to hear even the faintest sound from him.
“Innes, he’s unresponsive,” she called out, urgency lacing her voice.
From outside, Captain Innes’s reply came quickly, but it carried the weight of frustration and pressure. “We’re goin’ as fast as we can!”
Edwards turned her attention back to Matt, unwilling to give up on him. “Matt? Matt, can you hear me?” she called again, louder this time, her voice steady despite the fear creeping in.
A faint groan finally broke the silence. “…What…?” Matt’s voice was barely audible, strained and thick with exhaustion.
Relief flooded through her, but she didn’t let it show. “Need you to stay awake for me, okay?” she urged, her tone firm but gentle, as though her words alone could anchor him to consciousness.
“I’m… I’m trying…” he murmured, his words slurring. His eyelids fluttered as he fought the pull of sleep, his body screaming for rest. He was so cold, so tired. Every breath felt like dragging lead through his chest, and the thought of giving in was becoming harder to resist.
Before Edwards could say more, the tanker above shifted. A groaning screech of metal filled the air as its massive weight pressed further down on the truck. The entire frame buckled, sinking closer to the ground with a terrifying jolt.
“Argh!” Matt’s cry of agony tore through the commotion as his body was crushed further into the twisted metal. Pain exploded through his arm, the jagged ends of broken bone grinding together with sickening intensity. His head snapped back against the headrest, another guttural scream ripping from his throat. He wasn’t even aware of the sound—it was primal, unconscious, a raw reaction to the overwhelming agony.
“Matt!” Edwards shouted, panic flashing in her voice as she scrambled to get closer, but the narrow space between the wreck and the tanker made it nearly impossible to reach him.
Matt’s breaths came in short, uneven gasps, each one a battle against the suffocating weight and searing pain. Tears streaked through the blood on his face as his body trembled uncontrollably. The edges of his vision blurred, darkening, as his grip on reality began to slip. His mind felt detached, floating somewhere far from the crushing pain and the cold.
“Keep your eyes on me!” Edwards demanded, her voice cutting through the haze.
Her words barely registered. Matt’s world was narrowing to nothing but pain and exhaustion. His body was shutting down, his mind retreating. Somewhere, faintly, he could hear Kelly’s voice in his head—steady, stubborn, unrelenting. You don’t quit. You hear me, Casey? You don’t quit.
With a shuddering breath, he forced his eyes open, though they were heavy as lead. “Still… here…” he rasped, the words almost too soft to hear.
Edwards exhaled, relieved but knowing his hold was tenuous at best. “Good, Matt. That’s good. Just a little longer,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm even as the situation grew more dire.
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The world around Matt shifted in fragments, disjointed and blurred, as he drifted in and out of consciousness. The wreckage of the truck felt both a lifetime ago and painfully immediate, the echoes of groaning metal and his own cries still reverberating in his mind. Voices filtered through the haze, some familiar, others distant, but all urging him to hold on.
“Matt, just hang in there…”
Another voice, firmer but strained with effort. “Matt, they’re nearly through…”
There was a sudden jolt, his body being lifted, the pressure on his chest and arm momentarily spiking before easing slightly.
“Steady. On three. One…”
He felt weightless for a brief moment, then pain flooded back in, sharp and overwhelming, dragging him under again.
When he surfaced, the world was brighter—too bright. His eyes fluttered open briefly, the harsh glare of lights above him stabbing into his skull. He winced, his vision swimming, before closing his eyes again. Voices surrounded him, quick and busy, blending into the steady beep of monitors and the rumble of wheels beneath him.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?” a voice asked, close to his ear, steady and professional. “Do you remember what happened?”
Matt tried to respond, his lips moving sluggishly, the words catching in his throat. Finally, he croaked out, “…Truck…”
“That’s right,” the voice said, reassuring and calm. “You’re in the ER now. You’re going to be all right. Can you feel this?”
He felt a squeeze on his left hand, faint and distant, like it belonged to someone else. “Mmm…” was all he managed, the sound barely audible.
“Good,” the voice continued, unfazed by his lack of clarity. “We’ve set your collarbone. We’re stabilizing your arm and getting some scans to check for other injuries. Is there anyone we can call for you?”
Matt’s mind swam, struggling to pull a coherent thought from the fog. His head lolled to the side, his voice weak but determined. “…51…”
“They’re already in the waiting room,” the voice reassured him, the words cutting through the chaos like a lifeline.
That single piece of information grounded him more than anything else. His team was here. Kelly was here. He wasn’t alone. Despite the pain and exhaustion threatening to pull him under again, he clung to that thought, letting it anchor him.
The sounds around him continued—snapping gloves, tearing fabric, the mechanical hum of nearby equipment—but they faded to background noise as the weight of the moment pressed down on him. He was safe now, wasn’t he? Out of the wreck.
══════════════════
Boden and the rest of the crew sat in the waiting room, the sterile air heavy with tension. The call had come from Captain Innes as soon as Matt had been loaded into the ambulance, his condition stabilized just enough for transport. Boden had wasted no time informing the others.
Kelly didn’t even wait for the full explanation before grabbing the keys to the squad rig. His gut had already told him something was wrong when Matt hadn’t shown up for shift—Matt never missed shift. The rest of the crew followed quickly, the firehouse left in the capable hands of the on-call battalion chief as they all made their way to the hospital.
Now, the waiting room felt suffocating. Boden sat in one of the hard plastic chairs, his phone in hand, though he hadn’t looked at it in nearly fifteen minutes. He wasn’t the type to fidget, but his thumb tapped anxiously against his knee as he scanned the faces of his crew. Herrmann sat nearby, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, his jaw tight as he stared at the floor. Mouch sat beside him, arms crossed over his chest, uncharacteristically quiet.
Kelly, on the other hand, was pacing, his boots echoing against the tile floor as he wore a path back and forth across the room. He’d crossed his arms, then let them drop to his sides, then shoved his hands into his pockets—anything to keep them busy. He couldn’t sit still. His mind churned with guilt and frustration, his thoughts racing in a relentless loop.
He should’ve known something was wrong the moment Matt hadn’t walked through the firehouse doors. He should’ve called sooner, should’ve checked in, should’ve done something.
“I should’ve known,” Kelly muttered under his breath, though the words were more to himself than anyone else. His pacing continued, each step heavier than the last, his jaw tight.
“Severide,” Boden said, his voice low but commanding enough to cut through Kelly’s restless movement. Kelly stopped mid-step, turning to look at him. “You couldn’t have known this was going to happen,” Boden added, his tone firm but not unkind.
Kelly didn’t reply immediately, his expression a mixture of frustration and self-recrimination. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a sharp exhale. “He’s never late, Chief. Not once. I should’ve called him. If I’d called—”
“You can’t play the ‘what if’ game,” Boden interrupted, his tone gentler now. “Matt wouldn’t want you to.”
The mention of Matt’s name seemed to ground Kelly, though his expression remained tight. He sank into the nearest chair, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his hands together. His foot bounced against the floor as if the energy coursing through him refused to be contained.
“Any word yet?” Herrmann asked, breaking the silence. His gruff voice held an edge of concern as he glanced toward Boden.
Boden shook his head. “They’re still working on him., but he should be okay.”
The room fell silent again, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional muffled announcement over the hospital intercom. Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of the unknown pressing down on them all.
Kelly stared at the doors to the ER, willing someone—anyone—to walk through with an update. His mind kept circling back to Matt’s last words before he’d left for the gym that morning. He’d been so casual, so normal. It didn’t make sense that now, just hours later, Matt was fighting for his life in an ER.
He has to be okay, Kelly thought, gripping the edge of his seat so tightly his knuckles turned white.
══════════════════
Matt woke slowly, his body heavy and his mind fogged. The first thing he registered was a pressing weight on his chest, though it didn’t feel like the crushing force of the truck pinning him anymore. His surroundings were different now. The cold, metallic smell of the wreck had been replaced by the sterile, almost antiseptic scent of a hospital. A steady, rhythmic beeping filled his ears, keeping time with his heartbeat.
It took him a moment to orient himself, his mind struggling to piece together the events that had led him here. The weight on his chest was still there, grounding him, but something else caught his attention—his name, being called repeatedly in a calm, measured voice.
His senses began to sharpen, bit by bit. He felt the gentle pinch of a pulse oximeter clipped to his finger, the slight pressure of a nasal cannula delivering oxygen to his nose, and the soft hiss of the machine beside him. The most jarring change, though, was the warmth. He was finally warm. The memory of the frigid cold in the wreck made the current comfort feel surreal, like a luxury he hadn’t realised he needed so desperately.
He tried to open his eyes, but his lids felt impossibly heavy, resisting his sluggish commands. After several long moments, he finally managed to crack them open, his gaze unfocused and bleary.
“Hi there, Lieutenant. How are you feeling?” a voice asked, calm and professional, though tinged with warmth.
Matt blinked slowly, his vision clearing just enough to make out the figure of a man standing beside him in scrubs. “Good… I think…” he mumbled. In truth, his head felt like it was full of static, and forming coherent thoughts seemed like an uphill battle.
The man chuckled lightly. “Good drugs, right?”
“Mmm…” Matt hummed in agreement, his lips twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile.
The doctor continued, his tone easy but efficient as he explained, “We’ve set your collarbone. It’ll heal nicely, but your arm’s another story. Your X-ray shows a bad break—couldn’t set it here. You’ll need surgery to pin it.”
Matt’s brow furrowed slightly as he processed the words. “Head?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The single word carried weight, his worry clear. His history of a traumatic brain injury made any mention of head trauma a cause for alarm.
The doctor nodded, his expression reassuring. “You have a concussion, but the CT scan was clear. No bleeding, no swelling—you’re very lucky. The plastic surgeon will suture the laceration on your forehead, make sure there’s no scar. You’ll be okay.”
Matt exhaled a shaky breath of relief, the tension easing from his aching body. “Thanks…” he murmured, his voice slurred from exhaustion and medication.
The doctor smiled faintly. “Your crew’s in the waiting room. Is there any family we can call for you?”
Matt’s eyes fluttered shut again, the weight of sleep tugging at him. “Already here…” he mumbled, the words soft and barely audible.
The doctor placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder, a grounding gesture. “Alright, you’ll see them soon. Just rest for now.”
As the doctor stepped away, Matt let himself drift back into the haze, the steady beat of the heart monitor lulling him into a fragile sense of peace. He was safe. His team was here.
══════════════════
“Hey, sleeping beauty.”
The voice was familiar, warm with a hint of teasing, and Matt blinked groggily, his vision blurry as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. It took a moment for the pieces to click together—the sterile smell of the hospital, the quiet beeping of monitors, and Kelly standing by his bedside.
“Hi…” Matt croaked, his voice rough and scratchy from the abuse of the endotracheal tube that had only recently been removed.
Kelly’s brow furrowed, his expression softening as he leaned closer. “How are you feeling? Doc says—”
“I’m okay,” Matt interrupted, his automatic response spilling out before Kelly could finish.
Kelly raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Matt, you’re in the ICU, so let’s skip the ‘I’m okay’s,’ all right?”
He sighed, his lips quirking into a faint, tired smile. “I am,” he insisted weakly. “They said it’s just my arm… nothing life-threatening.”
Kelly’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he crossed his arms. “It was life-threatening,” he corrected firmly. “You hit your head. You lost a lot of blood. And you were trapped in your truck for over three hours.”
“Three hours?” he repeated, his eyes widening slightly as he tried to process the weight of that number.
“Uh-huh,” Kelly confirmed with a nod, his tone gentler now, though the tension hadn’t fully left his voice.
Matt let his head fall back against the pillow, the effort of staying awake already exhausting him. His eyes drifted shut for a moment before reopening, his gaze finding Kelly again. “Felt long… but three hours?” he murmured, disbelief laced in his voice.
“You sure you didn’t crack your skull again?” Kelly teased, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His relief at seeing Matt awake and coherent was palpable, though he masked it with his usual humour.
“Funny,” he replied dryly, though his tone lacked bite. His eyelids were growing heavier, and he could feel sleep pulling at him. “You don’t need to stay,” he added softly. “Really, you can go. Shouldn’t you be on shift? Not dying. And I’m… I’m about to fall asleep…”
Kelly huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll go. But just promise me you’ll stay ‘not dying,’ okay? You’re still in critical care.”
“I promise,” he slurred, his voice barely above a whisper as his eyes slid shut. For a moment, it seemed like he’d drifted off, but then they shot open again, his expression slightly panicked. “Oh, Kelly…”
Kelly’s posture stiffened instantly, his concern returning in full force. “What’s wrong?” he asked urgently, leaning closer.
Matt blinked at him, his lips parting as if to deliver some dire revelation. Instead, he muttered, “We’ve not got any milk.”
For a second, Kelly just stared, then let out a startled laugh, the tension breaking like a dam. He shook his head, running a hand over his face as a grin spread across it. “Jesus, Matt,” he muttered, his voice filled with a mixture of amusement and relief. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Matt’s own lips curved into the faintest smirk before his head sank back into the pillow. This time, when his eyes closed, they stayed shut, his breathing evening out as he succumbed to sleep.
Kelly lingered for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of Matt’s chest.