1. Dane

There's a space between wakefulness and sleep where I can almost hear everything around me, but the world is fuzzy and distant. It's not exactly a restful place, but when I feel myself drift, I know a great night's sleep is only moments away.

I'd just begun to dream when . . .

Two shrill tones sounded, jarring me upright. Plastic icicles dripping from the ceiling flashed blue. The guys around me grumbled and groused as they rose.

We'd almost made it through a full twenty-four-hour shift without a single call when the alert for a medical emergency shattered our perfect day.

"Well, shit," Alex said as he stood, rubbed his eyes, then smoothed out the ridiculous handlebar mustache he loved more than his children. "Some ninety-year-old probably fell and can't get up. Now we have to."

We knew he meant the quip in good humor, but Burton couldn't hold his tongue. "There's no need to make fun of old ladies. They need love too."

"Whoa." Alex threw up both palms. "Keep your dating life out of this firehouse."

A chorus of halfhearted groans from the four guys who manned the ambulance station drifted through our barracks-style bedroom, but everyone was too busy readying for the call to pile on. At any other time, jokes would've flown faster than our truck hurtling down the interstate.

Burton, the only Black firefighter in our station, was easily the most admired and well-liked member of either team. A father of four, he was a mentor to hundreds, his kind heart and gentle nature making him impossible not to like. At thirty-eight, Burton was also the oldest member of either team and had streaks of gray around his temples to prove it. Only a decade ahead of the rest of us, he often acted like he was half a century older than his peers, offering sage advice and pearls of wisdom whether asked for or not, earning him the most popular nickname in the station.

"Yoda." My head popped free as I pulled my arms through my shirt. "Don't feed him. He'll just eat more."

A moment later, the beeps quieted, and a mechanical female voice spoke over the speakers: "Engine Four, Medic One. Vehicle accident. Old Ivy Road eastbound between Georgia Four Hundred overpass and North Stratford Road. Channel two."

Burton started for the door. "Let's move, ladies. The truck won't drive itself."

The medics beat us out of the station, their sirens screaming despite the early morning hour. Atlanta's roads never slept. If they did, we might've enjoyed a few hours of shuteye.

Alex revved the engine as Samantha—Sam—climbed aboard and slammed the door behind her. "Let's move," she ordered, despite being the last to arrive.

"Yes, ma'am," Alex said, offering a mock salute. The truck crept past the massive roll-up door, then our lights began to flash.

"This part never gets old," Sami said as she pulled her chestnut ponytail across her shoulder and blinked herself awake.

"Leaving the garage?" Alex asked.

"No, idiot, going on a call. The start of the siren and lights. All of it."

"After how many years? Twelve? You still get a quiver in your pants over a siren?" He shook his head. "You need to get out more."

She punched his arm.

As the team's resident EMT, Sami worked harder on most calls than the rest of us, especially since most of our calls involved medical emergencies or car accidents. Fighting fires was a rarity, despite our endless training on battling blazes. Dispatch hadn't said whether this was a simple wreck with injuries or if a car was on fire, but either way, Sam's medical skills were almost always needed.

"Culo," she said, turning to stare out the window.

"Ooh," Burton and I said from the back at the same time.

"She's pissed when she switches into Spanish. Now you've done it, Happy." Burton's laugh was a warm cinnamon roll dripping with icing.

Sam's hand rose over her shoulder and one finger popped up.

I usually kept my mouth shut and head down. It was the only way to truly avoid getting shot when the verbal battles began. Besides, they were fun to watch from the sidelines while eating popcorn and drinking beer.

"There it is," Burton stated the obvious as the lights of the ambulance parked on the side of the road came into view.

Our siren stilled and the truck rolled to a stop behind the ambulance. One paramedic was standing over a middle-aged man while the other walked casually back to their truck.

"Looks like the box boys have this one covered," Sami said. "Unless you want to hose down that car, make sure it's really dead."

Alex flicked her a bird, earning a grin.

"You ladies mix the drinks. I'll go check out the party," she said, opening her door and hopping down like a gymnast dismounting a beam.

"We really need to pull something on her. She's getting way too cocky," Alex said. In addition to being the joker on the team, he was the station's well-established prankster, forever filling boots with shaving cream or pulling some other juvenile trick on unsuspecting station mates. If he hadn't been such a badass behind the wheel of a truck, and one of the bravest—almost foolhardy—men I'd ever known, his Puckish twin might've gotten him into a lot of trouble.

"I'd be afraid that one would bite back. She's got teeth," Burton quipped.

I grunted agreement and avoided Alex's gaze lest his brilliant plans somehow include me. "We should at least check out the car."

"True. Thanks for volunteering." Alex settled back into his seat like he planned to take a nap then peeked in the rearview mirror to catch a scowl from both Burton and me. "What? I'm the getaway driver in case things go south. Have you two never watched a heist movie? I can't leave the truck."

"Dear God, they gave a teenage boy a uniform," Burton groaned, popping his door. "Come on, Walkman, let's clear the scene."

Unlike the wise Yoda, my nickname—a play on my last name, Walker—was nearly as flat as the expression my face held most of the time. I hated the nickname. The guys knew it. So it stuck. Welcome to a firehouse.

The paramedic who wasn't treating the driver stepped up as we approached. "You guys can go home. Car's cold and the patient's refusing a taxi ride. Whoever hit him ran, probably a DUI from the sounds of it. We'll be right behind you as soon as the cops get here."

I glanced over his shoulder to find Sami walking our way. She'd overheard him and nodded her agreement.

Burton ignored the paramedic, moving past Sami toward the Honda Civic, whose driver's side front corner looked like someone had taken a bite out of an apple fritter and dropped it back in the box. He leaned into the window, checked to make sure the car was turned off, then straightened. Satisfied, he stepped to the hood and hovered a palm over the metal then turned and gave us a thumbs-up.

Sami rolled her eyes. "Well, that's a relief."

The paramedic chuckled. I kept my grin tight, appreciating Yoda's thoroughness. His dance with the Civic might've been overkill, but skipping steps got firefighters killed—maybe not in hit-and-run situations where two paramedics and another fireman had already checked the car, but in other more dangerous situations.

In a blink, I'd talked myself out of sympathy for Burton and grinned at Sam.

As Sam, Burton , and I strode back to our truck, the swirling blue lights of one of Atlanta's finest pulled up. Burton waved.

The headlights of another car nearly blinded us as it parked behind the police cruiser.

"Who's the lime?" Sami asked the cop, pointing to the putrid green Ford Escape.

The officer shook his head. "Press. Great."

"At five thirty in the morning? Seriously?" Sam's ponytail nearly smacked me as she shook her head. "We're out of here. Have fun with that."

The cop strode past us and mumbled something unintelligible, though I caught "fucking reporters" somewhere in his garble.

Something about the new arrival caught my eye. I thought it might've been the baby puke shade of the compact SUV's paint or the fact the vehicle still had its brights on, searing dots into my retinae. Then, just as the sun decided to peek over the horizon to paint the sky gold, the door opened and a man stepped out.

If I hadn't known he was a reporter from our resident policeman's declaration, that lightbulb would've lit the moment the guy flicked his sandy blond waves out of his face, revealing Coke-bottle glasses rimmed in black, and a chiseled, stubbly jaw. His khakis were so wrinkled I could see the rumples from where I stood, and his light blue shirt looked like he'd slept in it then wadded it up and sat on it as he drove to the scene.

Was the square jaw a reporter thing? It called out to me, I couldn't look away.

As he walked around the police car, the guy focused on the wrecked Civic. I wasn't even sure he'd noticed me standing beside our firetruck, staring like some lovestruck teen.

Then he turned, and eyes so clear and gray I thought he must've been a White Walker locked onto me. In the glow of the police car's headlights, I now saw just how square his jaw really was … and how perfectly plump his pink lips were … and his hair … damn. It was like somebody had taken the nerdiest nerd ever to watch Star Trek and melded him with a rail-thin, wrinkled, bespectacled version of Chris Hemsworth strutting his fine ass down the red carpet.

Then he smiled.

My breath caught.

He ducked his head, like he was my ten-year-old neighbor and I'd caught him peeking into my room through the blinds as I changed shirts.

It might've been the cutest thing ever.

I braced myself with a hand on the truck.

He raised a hand, the one with the palm-sized flip pad whose spiral binding had a pen shoved through it, and said, "I'm, uh, Patrick."