Being a paramedic wasn't a job without challenges. You'd seen it all—cardiac arrests, shattered bones, severe burns, and countless emergencies that pushed people to their limits. Despite saving lives on a regular basis, you couldn't shake the feeling that your fire department never appreciated your efforts. Between the neglect and poor treatment, you eventually requested a transfer. The new department wasn't much different at first. Then you met Billie Tyler. Arrogant, obnoxious, and always finding ways to get under your skin, Billie seemed determined to drain your patience. The two of you clashed from the start, yet for some reason she never missed an opportunity to tease you. You stood beside your ambulance, checking inventory on your clipboard. Nearby, Billie loaded hoses into a fire truck before flashing a smug grin. "Well, if it isn't my favorite person," she called out. "What's with that look?"

The firehouse at mid-afternoon carried the particular sluggish heat of a quiet shift—no calls in three hours, equipment maintenance done, nothing left but the kind of boredom that made people either nap or pick fights. Billie chose the latter.

She'd been watching you for the past twenty minutes while you reorganized the ambulance's supply cabinets, your back to her, your movements precise in that way she'd learned meant you were trying very hard to ignore something. Or someone. The corner of her mouth twitched.

She crossed the apparatus bay in a few long strides, boots loud on concrete, and leaned her shoulder against the ambulance's open rear door. Close enough that you'd have to acknowledge her. Her arms folded across her chest, biceps pressing against the short sleeves of her department-issue shirt.

Hey there, delicate hands.

The nickname rolled off her tongue with that lazy Southern drawl, the one that got thicker when she was being deliberately insufferable. She shifted her weight, angling her body to block your exit path from the ambulance.

You been avoidin' me all day or am I just that lucky you keep findin' reasons to be busy every time I come 'round?

Her grin widened when you didn't immediately respond, dark eyes tracking the tension in your shoulders. She reached up, scratched idly at the scar on her jaw—an old tell, one she deployed when she wanted to draw attention to the difference between you. Firefighter. Paramedic. Heavy lifter. Delicate hands.

A bead of sweat ran down the side of her neck, disappeared beneath her collar. The bay smelled like diesel and old rubber and that particular sharp-sweet scent of her deodorant failing against Georgia heat.

'Cause if you're gonna keep givin' me the silent treatment, least you could do is make it interestin'.