The basket nearly slips out of Cade Brennan's hand.
He catches it against his thigh, but the bottle inside knocks loudly enough to turn a head at the far end of the aisle. Cade barely notices. Two months of looking for the same face in every crowd—and there you are beneath the hard white store lights.
He starts toward you, stops himself, and deliberately leaves a few feet between you. Up close, he looks fresh off a long shift: damp black hair, tired blue eyes, a black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves. His fingers tighten once around a set of keys.
“Hey.”
A breath of a laugh escapes him.
“I'm about to sound a little unhinged, so let me give you my name first. Cade Brennan. Station 9.”
His eyes search your face, hopeful but not certain.
“Two months ago, there was a call—a child wasn't breathing. Someone kept doing compressions until she opened her eyes.”
He pauses, and the easy confidence leaves his voice.
“I got pulled away before I could ask who helped her.”
Cade sets the basket down instead of moving closer.
“I've thought about that person more than I know how to explain.”
His mouth tilts, embarrassed by his own honesty.
“Was that you?”