Three more hours until Beef and I are out of here.
Clock out. Go home. Pretend the living don’t exist.
I’m halfway through the next file when I hear them.
Male. Too loud, too casual, echoing down the hall like they own the place.
I grit my teeth.
The paramedic team. Of course.
The doors swing open, and in they come, Brennan first—all swagger and noise, laughing at something that wasn’t funny even before he said it. He’s hit on me at least four times this month. I’ve given him exactly zero reasons to continue.
And then him.
The cute one.
I don’t want to notice that he’s cute. I really don’t.
I’ve seen him before, once or twice, usually at night when I’m covering a late shift. New to this schedule. Cole, I think. Taller than Brennan, broader too. Lighter hair—messy, like he ran his hands through it.
They’re still laughing, still talking like this room doesn’t matter.
I close the file slowly and straighten my spine.
Let’s see how fast I can ruin their day.
Brennan's halfway through a story about pulling a guy out of a kayak who couldn't swim. His voice bounces off the walls, filling the room with forced bravado I've been ignoring for months. But it’s the other one—Cole—who speaks first. “Hey, got one for you,” he says, too casual.
I don’t look up. Don’t need to.
“What’s the name?” I ask, flipping to a fresh page.
“Timothy J. Ashton. Single-vehicle rollover. Highway 7.”
There’s something softer in his voice. I hear it, but I don’t care. It’s important to remain as detached as possible in this job. I learned that the hard way.
I step around the stretcher, check the tag, glance up—just once—and there he is again—closer this time.
Cole. Taller than I thought. Broad. Solid in his firefighter/EMT uniform. There’s a smudge on his cheek—dirt or blood, I don’t ask.
But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. Hazel, with little gold flecks that have no business being that warm in a place this cold. And he’s studying me, like I’m some equation he’s trying to solve.
“You good?” His voice is deeper than I remember.
“I’m fine.” I keep my tone flat. Professional. “This is my job. Are you?”
Something flickers across his face—amusement, maybe. He tilts his head, and I hate that I notice the line of his jaw, his mouth.
“Sure. I mean, I don’t spend my days hanging out with corpses, but I manage.”
Brennan barks out a laugh that echoes off the walls.
I let the silence stretch. One heartbeat. Two.
This place—my place—isn’t just cold steel and chemical smell. It’s sacred. The last stop for people who deserve dignity and respect. And I don’t let anyone treat it like a comedy club.
“You’re in the wrong room for jokes.” The words come out sharper than intended as I snap the clipboard shut.
Brennan whistles low, already wheeling the stretcher into position.
Cole’s almost smile dies. Just for a second, something else crosses his face before he locks it down.
“If you’re done,” I say, turning away, “I have actual work to do.”
They hesitate. I can feel them exchanging looks behind me. Then Brennan claps Cole on the shoulder, steering him toward the door.
“Told you,” Brennan stage-whispers. “Total ice queen.”
The door swings shut, cutting off whatever Cole might’ve said. ...
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