He nods, oblivious. “Sure thing, Sheriff.”
I walk out before I can embarrass myself.
There’s a long hallway that leads back to the exit, lined with framed photos of old fire crews. As I pass the glass case, my reflection catches—a tall man in a pressed uniform, gold badge shining, face drawn tight with things he shouldn’t be feeling.
That’s who I am now. Sheriff Knox Hill. Law and order. Discipline. A man who doesn’t lose control, doesn’t cross lines.
I can’t jeopardize that.
Not for anyone.
I step outside and climb into the cruiser, but I can’t drive away. My hands stay on the wheel, unmoving. Through the windshield, I can still see her through the open bay doors, standing near the fire truck, still talking to that blond guy.
He touches her shoulder before walking inside. She waves after him, the movement small, distracted.
And then I see it. The shift. The brightness drains out of her face. Her shoulders hunch, her posture crumples just a little.
Something’s wrong.
Before I can stop myself, I’m out of the car. My boots hit the pavement, the sound echoing too loud in the quiet.
She’s unlocking her car when she notices me. The look on her face is pure shock.
“Knox,” she says, voice thin.
“Was that your boyfriend?” The words come out before I can swallow them back.
Her eyes widen. “What the fuck?”
I realize how this looks—me, in full uniform, walking toward her like an idiot. She blinks rapidly, green eyes watery.
“Millie—”
But she’s already turned away, climbing into her car. I do the only stupid thing left to do. I open the passenger door and slide in beside her.
She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which, honestly, maybe I have.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” she says, voice shaky. Her eyes are red. She’s been crying.
“Why are you crying?” I ask quietly.
“I’m fine.” She wipes at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I have to get to work, okay? I’m busy.”
“Not like this.” I reach over, take her keys gently from her fingers before she can start the ignition. “You can’t drive in this state.”
She hiccups, a tiny sound that breaks something in me. And before I can think, I pull her toward me.
She doesn’t fight it.
She just folds into my chest, shaking. Right there in the parking lot, under the morning sun, pressed against my uniform like I’m her anchor and not the reason she’s falling apart.
“I’m staining your jacket,” she mumbles against my shoulder, her voice muffled.
“It’s fine,” I say, though my throat’s too tight.
I hate the way my body reacts—the sharp awareness of her against me, the instinctive pull to hold her tighter, to protect. My Alpha instincts kick in hard, the scent of her curling around me, sweet and distracting, almost dizzying. It’s chemical, primal, instinctual.
And it scares me.
