By the third morning at Station 17, the firehouse no longer felt like a temporary shelter. It felt dangerously close to home.
Zara woke to the low hum of male voices and the rich scent of coffee drifting down the hall. Mia was already up, perched on a stool in the kitchen with her giraffe tucked under one arm, watching Jax flip pancakes with theatrical flair.
“Morning, sunshine!” Jax called, flashing Zara that devastating grin as she entered. “Hope you’re hungry. Captain’s orders: everyone eats before shift change.”
Zara smoothed down her borrowed Station 17 t-shirt, which hung loose on her frame. “You really don’t have to keep feeding us. I can help.”
“You are helping,” Mace said from the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. His dark eyes lingered on her a second longer than ne
