Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1 - Bry
I’m dead asleep—finally, blessedly out—when a loud bang yanks me back to the world, followed by a string of muffled curses that sound like they’re coming through the wall itself.
Not a gunshot, not a code, just… moving-day bullshit. Cardboard scraping concrete. Another thud. A low, frustrated “shit” that carries just enough to piss me off. It’s like someone’s playing demolition derby with furniture out in the hall.
I groan into my pillow, the sound scraping out of my throat raw and ragged. My whole body feels like it’s been run over by the rig—muscles humming with that deep, bone-tired ache you only get after a twenty-four that refused to end quietly. I can still smell the antiseptic and smoke clinging to my skin even after the shower. I’ve been horizontal for maybe ninety minutes, tops. Maybe less.
Of course this happens now. The universe has a great fucking sense of humor.
I kick the tangled sheet off my legs and haul myself up, bare feet slapping the cold laminate as I stomp through the dark apartment. The air smells faintly of yesterday’s microwave pizza and the pile of clean laundry I didn’t put away.
Another thud from the hall—sharper this time—and my temper flares, hot and instant, the way it does when I’m running on fumes and someone’s dumb enough to get in my way.
I don’t bother with a shirt. What’s the point?
I grab the doorknob, yank the door open hard enough to rattle the frame, and step into the hallway already growling a heartfelt “what the fuck.”
And freeze.
Because suddenly, I’m staring into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
Not washed-out, not icy. Blue like a July sky over the park near the house I grew up in—clear, deep, and entirely too perceptive for comfort. They hit me square in the chest, and for one stupid second my brain stalls out, anger tangled in something almost as hot.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Annoying as hell.
He’s holding a big cardboard box, sleeves of his dark Henley pushed up to the elbows, forearms corded with the effort. Clean-shaven, hair neat even in the middle of moving chaos. He blinks once, surprise flickering across his face at the half-naked, scowling stranger who just exploded into the hallway. Then everything about him settles—shoulders easing, expression smoothing into something unreadable but not cold.
“I assume we woke you?” he asks. Voice low, even, like he’s talking down a combative patient. No defensiveness. Just calm. He tips his head toward the two teenagers hovering behind him—one lanky kid with a box clutched to his chest looking mortified, the other suddenly fascinated by his sneakers.
“Yeah,” I bite out. “You did. Maybe keep it the fuck down?”
One dark eyebrow lifts—just a fraction. Not pissed. Just… taking my measure. Like he’s already catalogued the bags under my eyes, the stubble, the ink curling along my chest and arms, the faint white scar along my collarbone from that vacation with Luza.
His gaze flicks down for half a heartbeat, clinical almost, then comes right back up to meet mine. Steady. Unflinching.
“I apologize on behalf of my nephews,” he says. He shifts the box to free one hand and extends it. “Isaiah Owens.”
I take it automatically. His palm is warm, calloused in the right places, grip firm enough to say he knows how to hold on without crushing. Something about it feels… solid.
“Dustin Bryant,” I mutter. His name pings something in the back of my head—but the connection slips away in the fog. “Guess you’re the new, um, uh…”
Too tired. Brain’s fried. Can’t find the word.
“Neighbor,” he finishes for me, smooth as hell. “Yes.”
“Swell.” I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the grit in my eyes, the exhaustion dragging at every limb. My voice comes out rougher than I mean. “Look, I just crawled off a twenty-four that about killed me. Gimme till noon, and then you can have a pot and pan parade for all I give a shit.”
I don’t wait for whatever calm, reasonable thing I assume he’s about to say.
Honestly, I’m just too exhausted to give a fuck.
I step back inside, shut the door harder than strictly necessary, and stalk back to the bedroom. The mattress hits my back like a lifeline, and I pull the pillow over my head, trying to block out the lingering quiet thuds from the hall.
When I get up a few hours later, and check my work email, I realize why his name is familiar.
He’s the recently hired EMS Chief.
My new boss.
