His breath caught against my lips before he responded, mouth warm and slightly coffee-bitter. His left hand came up to cup theback of my neck, fingers threading through the short hair above my collar and thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind my ear. The contact steadied me, interrupting the paranoid spiral that had been building since we'd left the cabin.
The kiss deepened. I forgot about surveillance and federal assets and how this could all end badly. There was only Matthew's mouth against mine and the choice I was making to stay instead of run, to trust instead of hide, and to want something more than mere survival.
We broke apart, and Matthew put the truck back in gear. It carried us toward whatever Michael had planned. As I stared at Matthew's profile, I knew I was engaged in something worth fighting for.
Chapter fifteen
Matthew
The ambulance bay reeked of diesel exhaust and industrial bleach, familiar scents that usually settled my nerves. Now, they made my stomach clench. I carried my gear bag and headed toward the locker room, boots echoing off concrete that had absorbed three decades of emergency calls.
With the encouragement of Michael's FBI contact, I returned to work. Leaving Dorian in the apartment was difficult, but he insisted he would remain vigilant.
Kayla stood at her open locker, pulling on her duty jacket. She glanced up when I approached, raising one eyebrow, signaling commentary on the way.
"Back from your nature retreat?" She slammed her locker door hard enough to rattle the neighboring units. "You look like you spent the weekend wrestling bears instead of communing with trees."
I fumbled with my combination lock, fingers missing the numbers twice before the mechanism clicked open. "Didn't even get a mosquito bite."
"Right."
We moved to the rig for pre-shift inspection, falling into our usual routine. I checked oxygen levels while she tested the defibrillator.
I kept losing count. Was the oxygen at 2,200 PSI or 2,400? Had I already checked the suction unit?
"Matthew." Kayla's voice cut through my mental fog. "You're staring at that gauge like it's written in Sanskrit."
I blinked, refocusing. Full. Green. Good to go. "Sorry. Just making sure."
She moved to the medication locker, checking expiration dates. "So what's his name?"
My hand froze on the IV bag I'd been examining. "Whose name?"
"The guy who's got you twisted up." She didn't look up from the drug box. "You've been checking the same oxygen tank for five minutes, you forgot the stretcher restraints, and your shirt's half untucked."
I glanced down and stuffed the tail of my shirt back under my belt. When had that happened?
"It's complicated."
"Always is." Kayla closed the med locker and turned to face me. "You okay?"
Two days removed from watching Dorian sleep in my arms while rain drummed against cabin windows. Three days since Ma claimed him as family over Sunday dinner. Three hours from leaving him at home, while he promised to be careful.
"Yeah. Just tired."
The words came out flat. Kayla studied my face with the same attention she used to assess trauma patients, looking for signs of shock or damage that wasn't immediately visible.
She let it go. For now.
The radio squawked. "Unit Seven-Two, respond to 1247 Pine Street, apartment 3B. Lift-assist, elderly female, non-emergent."
Kayla keyed her mic. "Unit Seven-Two responding."
I moved toward the driver's seat, then stopped. My hands were shaking—barely perceptible tremors. Kayla knew me well enough to notice.
"I'll drive," she said quietly.
Mrs. Lemon was a simple call—eighty-seven years old, fallen in her bathroom and couldn't get back up. No injuries, only needed assistance to her favorite armchair and reassurance that calling for help wasn't a bother.
