Chapter 1
Sawyer
Imove through life like a man waiting for the next hit.
At the firehouse, that works in my favor. I’m steady. Controlled. The one people trust when everything’s burning and loud and going sideways. I don’t flinch. I don’t hesitate. I do the job and keep everyone alive.
At home, it’s quieter.
Too quiet.
My daughter is still asleep when I leave the station after a twelve-hour shift that stretched closer to fourteen thanks to a barn fire that refused to die quietly. The smell of smoke clings to me, baked into my clothes, my skin, my bones. I don’t bother changing. I just want a shower. Coffee. Sleep.
I slide into my truck as the sun creeps up over Devil’s Peak, traffic already thick by small-town standards with commuters and delivery vans. I sit at the red light on Main, forehead resting briefly against the steering wheel, and let myself think about nothing.
That’s when I hear it.
Crunch.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just enough to snap every muscle in my body tight.
I lift my head slowly, already knowing.
I check the mirror.
A compact sedan sits a little too close to my bumper.
I close my eyes. Count to three.
Then I put the truck in park and step out.
She does the same, climbing out of the sedan with a sharp intake of breath like she’s bracing for impact. She’s smaller than I expect. Curvy in a soft, real way. Dark hair pulled into a messy knot that looks like it gave up halfway through the morning. She’s wearing a coat that’s too thin for the cold, and when she sees me, her eyes go wide.
“Oh my God,” she says immediately. “I’m so sorry. I swear I wasn’t on my phone. The light changed and?—”
She cuts herself off when she really looks at me.
At the turnout coat still slung over my shoulder. The soot smudged along my jaw. The fact that I’m built like someone who doesn’t lose fights.
Her apology softens. Turns careful.
“I—I just tapped you,” she adds, quieter. “Barely.”
I glance at the bumper. She’s right. A scuff. Nothing bent. Nothing cracked.
I exhale through my nose. “You okay?”
She blinks. “Me?”
“Yes. You.”
Her mouth curves despite herself. “I’m fine. Embarrassed. Possibly mortified. But physically intact.”
That shouldn’t do anything to me.
It does.
“Good,” I say, because I don’t trust myself to say anything else.
