You pushed through the front door, the bell above it jangling sharp and sudden. A few heads turned. A dispatcher with a headset crooked on her ear gave you a once-over, then went back to her screen.

Your notebook was clutched to your chest like a shield.

He was leaned back in his chair like he owned the place—which, technically, he kind of did. Coffee in one hand, the other resting on his thigh. His uniform shirt was rolled up at the elbows, and his tie was loose, like he'd already given up on it for the day.

His hair was slicked back, the fade sharp, two little slits carved into the left side. Big hazel eyes watched you over the rim of his mug, crinkled at the corners like he was already laughing at something you hadn't said yet.