But then she’d run into Michael Merrick. Only a year older than she was, with his own ready-made family. He worked as many hours as she did, and he hardly had time to scrape together for a girlfriend either. In a way, their relationship felt very high school. The closest they’d come to “spending the night together” was one morning when she’d gotten off work at 3 AM, and “early cup of coffee at his place” had turned into making out. She’d showered in his bathroom and borrowed one of his T-shirts—leading his brothers to get the wrong idea—but they’d never gone farther than that.

Back in high school, they’d never run in the same circles. He’d played baseball and worked for his parents, while she’d rebelled against her father’s strict parenting. Michael had been a year older, too, and she’d dropped out halfway through her junior year. It wasn’t like they would have bumped into each other at the prom. Still, she remembered eighteen-year-old Michael so clearly. He’d walked through the hallways like he owned the place, every pore on his body radiating don’t mess with me.

He carried himself like that now. When they’d first gone out—for a cup of coffee, nothing more—she’d been a bit wary, worried that when he learned about her profession, he’d act like he needed to “out-man” her. But there really wasn’t anything macho about him. No bravado, no chest-puffing, no sign of a domineering ass**le.

He’d been a gentleman. He’d bought her coffee and pulled out her chair—little niceties she wasn’t used to, because she sure didn’t expect that around the firehouse. But every time he talked to her, his voice had been rough and quiet, as if every word were a secret just for her. It had made her shiver in a good way.

Tonight, he’d looked broken. She’d been afraid to touch him, as if one brush of skin would send him shattering into a million pieces. But then she had, and he’d clung to her as if he’d been afraid to let go. Some people might see it as weakness, but she didn’t. She knew how it felt to have life yank the rug out from under you. She knew what it meant to need someone to hold you, to share the weight of the world for a minute. For a second. She would have held him all night.

And then her father had shown up to act like Detective Dickhead.

As usual.

A locker door slammed over on the guys’ side of the dorm. Hannah ignored it, insulated on the women’s side. She wasn’t the only woman in the department, but there were few enough that sometimes it felt like it.

She should probably get going. She pushed the damp hair back from her face and slapped the faucet to kill the water.

She could hear male voices more clearly now, but with the dorm area door closed, she couldn’t make out more than muffled tones, then laughter with an edge. Giving someone shit, from the sound of it.

Men. She sighed and reached for her towel.

Her phone was on the counter, and the screen lit with a message. Hannah pushed the button, hoping for a return text from Michael.

Her mother.

I have lunch packed for James. Need me to take him to school?

Hannah smiled. While her father treated her as if she’d never live up to his expectations, her mother made up for that lack of warmth tenfold. Hannah looked at the time and texted back.

I should be home in time.

A new message almost immediately.

I don’t want you to have to rush. You work so hard.

Maybe it was the timing of the message, or the emotion of the preceding twelve hours, but Hannah could swear she felt tears rushing to her eyes again.

Maybe her mom could sense it, because another message appeared almost immediately.

Don’t worry about rushing. If I don’t see you in the next 20, I’ll take him. I’ll put a note in his lunchbox from mommy.

Hannah smiled. Her mom always thought of details like that. She’d probably draw a picture and sign it from “mommy,” full of Xs and Os.

Hannah made a mental note to empty the dishwasher or vacuum the living room or something, just to let the woman know her efforts weren’t ignored. She put the phone on the counter and used the towel to scrub vigorously at her body. If she rushed, she could make it home in time to see James.

The phone lit again, and Hannah grabbed it from the counter. It wasn’t like her mother to keep a text conversation going. The woman needed emoticons explained, for god’s sake.

But it wasn’t her mother. It was Michael Merrick.

Sorry I couldn’t look for you. Are you OK?

Hannah stared at the message for a while. Too long—she realized she was still standing here na**d and freezing.

Yeah. You?

He didn’t respond for the longest time, and finally she had to get dressed or deal with hypothermia. She put the phone back on the counter and reached for her clothes.

Another locker slammed from the other side of the wall, then more male laughter. Hannah pulled on a long-sleeved tee and wished her hair were long enough for a ponytail. She didn’t have time to dry it—not if she wanted to get home in time to be a responsible mommy.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and flung the door open.

It left her staring straight into the men’s locker room. The door was propped open, steam in the air.

Irish was standing at a sink, wearing jeans and nothing else, shaving his face with slow, even strokes.

Hannah was standing there with her mouth hanging open. She quickly shut it and looked away before he could notice.

They’d been next to each other all night—at one point performing joint CPR on a woman they’d found in the basement of the fourth house—so it shouldn’t have felt so intimate.