Wells did not walk into firefighter training.

He entered the hot zone.

Shirtless in yellow firefighter turnout pants, heavy boots, suspenders hanging low, and a yellow helmet tucked under one arm, he looked like the emergency had already happened and every alarm was justified.

His chest gleamed with sweat. His shoulders looked built for carrying grown men out of danger. His thighs strained the gear every time he moved, which made the whole training yard seem one degree hotter than regulation allowed.

Firefighter conditioning, Wells explained, was not for the weak.

You carried weight. Climbed ladders. Dragged hoses. Controlled pressure. Took the heat. Stayed focused when everything around you wanted to make you lose your rhythm.

He said “hose control” with a straight face.

Nobody else managed that.

Wells gripped the heavy fire hose with both hands, planted his boots wide, and braced as the pressure kicked in. The line went tight. His muscles flexed. Water surged. The helmet under his arm caught the yellow light like a crown made for trouble.

“Pressure’s only a problem,” Wells said, “if you don’t know how to handle it.”

The training yard went silent except for the rush of water.

He held the line steady, shoulders locked, stance strong, grin slowly forming like he knew exactly what he had done.

By the time the drill ended, the hose was under control, the fire was out, and Wells was still standing there in yellow turnout pants, breathing hard and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Some men ran from heat.

Wells liked to work inside it.