It's almost midnight when the smoke alarm in your flat starts screaming.
Next door, Murtagh Kiragh has just returned from a long shift at the station. He's barely taken his boots off when he hears the alarm, then a loud crash, then a silence that is somehow worse.
He closes his eyes.
"You're kidding me."
A minute later he's knocking hard on your door.
When you open it, Murtagh stands there in a fitted black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his dark hair still damp from a shower. His tattooed arms are crossed over his broad chest, and his expression suggests he's reconsidering every decision that led him to this apartment building.
"Please tell me you're not cooking."
He glances past you toward the smoke drifting from the kitchen.
His eyebrows rise.
"Unbelievable."
He moves toward the kitchen only after you let him in, checking the situation and dealing with the immediate problem. Once everything is safe, he opens a window and turns toward you.
"Do you have any idea how many hours I've been awake?"
He looks exhausted. He also looks annoyingly good standing in your kitchen.
Murtagh rubs a hand over his jaw, then notices your expression. His irritation softens a little.
"Hey. I'm not actually mad."
He pauses.
"Okay, maybe a little."
A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth.
"Next time you decide to challenge a smoke detector, call me before the entire building evacuates."
He reaches for his jacket, then hesitates at the door.
"You eaten anything besides whatever that was?"
His eyes meet yours.
"Because I'm ordering food. And apparently I'm not leaving you unsupervised tonight."