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He huffed a soft laugh. “True.”

I stood, knees protesting, and held out a hand. “Come on. Coffee’s getting cold. And I fully intend to mess up something else before you can straighten it.”

His fingers closed around mine, warm and solid.

As I helped him to his feet, I realized something that made my stomach flip and my heart calm at the same time.

I wanted to fight for us.

I just wasn’t sure how to do it.

But for the first time in a long time, we were in the same room, breathing the same air, looking at the same mess.

Maybe, just maybe, that was where the fight started.

Chapter Eight

By the time I pulled into the station lot that morning, I actually felt…steady.

Not great. Not fixed. But better than I had in months.

Chloe had stayed the night. In the guest room, yeah, but she’d stayed. She’d retaped my ribs with gentle, bossy hands, messed up my dish towels on purpose, and told me I didn’t get to hand her the house like some kind of consolation prize.

I’d fallen asleep listening to her move around the guest room, the soft sounds of drawers and hangers and the creak of the mattress as she turned over. For the first time in a long time, the house hadn’t felt like a museum.

It had felt like home.

So walking into the station, I’d been almost…light. Sore, taped, bruised as hell—but weirdly lighter.

That lasted about nine minutes.

“Jesus, Post,” someone muttered near the engine. “What’s the other guy look like?”

I managed a grunt that passed for humor, stowed my bag, and tried not to wince as I bent to tie my boots. The movement pulled at my ribs and sent a sharp bloom of pain under my breastbone. I swallowed a hiss and straightened upright too fast.

That was when Rankin spotted me.

He was coming in from the bay, turnout pants hanging open around his hips and a cup of coffee in hand. His eyes flicked over my face first—right eyebrow, butterfly bandage, swelling—and then lower, tracking how I held myself just a little too stiff on my left side.

His steps slowed. The coffee didn’t move.

“Post,” he said, voice flat. Not amused, not curious. Assessing.

“Morning,” I said, trying for normal. It came out thin.

He didn’t answer. Instead he walked right up to me, set his coffee down on the bench, and reached out like he was checking a piece of equipment. He jabbed two fingers lightly into my ribs, just below where my coat would buckle.

White-hot pain detonated under my skin.

I sucked in air hard enough my teeth clicked.

Rankin raised a brow. “Thought so. Come with me.”

Before I could tell him exactly where he could put his diagnostic technique, he was already headed toward Captain Holbrook’s office, expecting me to follow.

I did. Because I wasn’t stupid. And because Rankin had a way of looking at you that said fighting him was a waste of oxygen.

Holbrook was at his desk, reading glasses low on his nose, paperwork spread out in neat stacks. He looked up when Rankin pushed the door open.