“Lucy.”
“Lieutenant Calder.”
His eyes flare. I step behind him to adjust the angle of his shoulders, my palms dangerously close to warm skin.
“Turn a little to the left,” I say softly.
He doesn’t move.
“Left,” I repeat.
Nothing.
“Ash,” I whisper, “work with me.”
He finally shifts—but an inch too far.
“No, no—back a little.”
He doesn’t. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s making me push him.
Fine.
I place my hands on his shoulders.
And feel him tense like I’ve shocked him.
God. His skin is warm. His muscles hard under my palms. And when I apply pressure to turn him slightly— He exhales a sound that makes my knees weaken.
I freeze. “Ash?”
He’s quiet. Too quiet. Then—voice low, almost a growl: “You need to stop touching me.”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Why?”
“Because I’m one second away from?—”
He stops again. I’m dying.
“Ash,” I whisper, “from what?”
He turns his head slightly. Just enough that I can see his eyes over his shoulder.
They are not safe eyes. They are I'm-going-to-ruin-your-holiday-decorations eyes.
He says, barely audible, “From forgetting we’re in public.”
My breath catches. We stand there—silent—surrounded by people but somehow alone.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll stop touching you.”
“Good.”
I step back. He steps too— Toward me. Until my back hits the wall of the firehouse bay. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t lean in. He just stands close enough that heat radiates through the inches between us. Close enough that the crew stares like they’re watching their favorite soap opera.
He lowers his head slightly. “Lucy.”
“Yes.”
