The insurance company dragged its feet. Another delay. Another week at Station 17.
Zara told herself it was temporary. She repeated it like a mantra while she folded laundry, helped prep meals, and tried to ignore the way her body reacted every time one of the three men walked into the room.
But the firehouse had stopped feeling like a refuge.
It felt like temptation wrapped in red brick and diesel fumes.
The shift started innocently enough.
Mace found her alone in the apparatus bay that afternoon, wiping down one of the rescue tools. The big ladder truck loomed behind them, chrome gleaming under the overhead lights.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said without preamble. His voice was low, rough around the edges.
Zara straightened, cloth still in her hand. “I’m not—”
“You are.” He stepped
