I swear under my breath and force myself up the stairs before I do something stupid.
My room is small—barely bigger than a walk-in closet.
Single bed. Metal frame. Dark gray linens. One nightstand. A hook for my turnout pants. A door that doesn’t quite latch.
Nothing in here is comfortable except the mattress. I always end up waking up here after a long shift. Holly sneaks in sometimes for naps. It’s quiet. Familiar.
Safe.
But it is absolutelynotsafe right now.
Lucy steps inside and does a slow turn, taking in the space. “Wow. Your decorating style is… minimal.”
“It’s a firehouse, not a resort.”
“I’ve seen jail cells with more personality.”
“Don’t push it.”
Her smile widens.
I want to put her against the wall and erase the smile with my mouth.
God, I need sleep.
Or oxygen.
Or distance.
None of which I’m getting.
I drop her bag beside the bed.
“You take this,” I say, nodding at the mattress. “I’ll take the couch downstairs.”
She crosses her arms. “No.”
“It’s not up for discussion.”
“It absolutely is.”
I narrow my eyes. “Lucy. Take the damn bed.”
She tilts her head like she’s examining a zoo exhibit. “Do you think I’m fragile?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She steps closer.
I don’t back up.
She pokes a finger into my chest. “You think I can’t survive one night on a firehouse couch?”
“That couch is older than both of us.”
