I exhale slowly.

Not the time, Callahan.

The elevator dings, and we step out. The hallway stretches before us, quiet and deserted.

I unlock my door, push it open, and nod her inside.

And now, Izzy Russo is in my apartment.

And that?

That's a problem.

She looks around like she's trying to take in everything at once. It's simple. Minimal furniture. A basic couch, a single bookshelf, a kitchen table I never use.

I don't care about appearances. My place is functional. That's all that matters. Still, I notice the way she lingers in the center of the room, taking it all in.

"This is really cozy," she says.

I huff a laugh, grabbing a fresh t-shirt from my closet. The fabric slides over my skin, finally providing a barrier between me and the cold that I've been pretending not to feel.

Then she turns and sees the bed against the far wall. Her brow furrows. "Do you...really fit on that?"

I glance at my bed—a twin that barely accommodates my frame.

I chuckle. "Not really. But I haven't been able to sleep on anything that doesn't feel like an army cot since I got out."

She nods, but stays quiet. Like she doesn't know what to say to that. Like she's thinking too hard about it. And I don't like the way that makes my chest tighten.

"Come on," I say, grabbing my keys. The metal is cool in my palm. "We can walk to the store. Pick up your car on the way back."

She shrugs. "Why don't we just go over the brief here?"

I pause.

Because immediately, yes.

Having Izzy in my apartment?

Yes.

Her scent lingering on my furniture, her voice filling up my space?

Yes.

But also no.

Because having her alone with me in here for any length of time will make me want to do things I shouldn't.

She's waiting on my answer, watching me. Her eyes are expectant, slightly curious.

I force a casual shrug.

"Yeah," I say, voice even. "That's fine. We can go over it here."

She nods, then walks over to my bed⁠—

And sits down.

Fuck.

She's right there.

On my bed.

In my space.

I swallow hard.

This?

This really is going to be a problem.

PLEASE HOLD WHILE I SELF-ACTUALIZE

IZZY

I sit on Callahan's bed.

His actual bed.

And it's so much worse than I thought it would be. Because it smells like him. Like clean laundry, cedar, and something masculine that I don't have a name for but would 100% buy in candle form if that were an option. The scent wraps around me, as though the mattress itself has absorbed his presence.

And he's standing there, watching me, like he's trying very hard to figure out if we're about to make a huge mistake.

I clear my throat, pretending like I’m unaffected. "So, the security brief," I say, crossing my legs like I'm totally unbothered. The casual pose feels forced, even to me.

He blinks like he forgot why we were here. Then he shakes his head, pulls out his phone, and starts scrolling before finally sitting down next to me.

The mattress dips under his weight. And that's when I realize just how small this bed is. Because suddenly, he's very close. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, the slight shift in the bed whenever he moves. Close enough that my breath catches in my throat for half a second.

I grab my tablet from my bag, because I don't go anywhere without it, and then I lock my eyes on it, pretending like I'm absorbing all the numbers and graphs in front of me, but all I can think about is how aware I am of him.

The way his broad shoulders take up too much space.

The way his thigh is inches from mine.

The way his scent lingers in the air around us.

I force myself to focus, taking a deep breath that only fills my lungs with more of his scent.

"Right," he mutters, his voice gruffer than usual. "The security brief."

We spend the next twenty minutes going over store security plans for the upcoming holiday season.

Yes, it's March.

Yes, that means Christmas is nine months away.

And yes, that means we have to start planning now, because Christmas in retail is basically a war zone, and only the prepared survive. The thought of the coming chaos makes my breath quicken with preemptive anxiety.

Callahan leans back against the wall, his arm resting behind him, his shirt stretched perfectly across his chest as he talks through the biggest security concerns. The fabric pulls taut over his muscles with each gesture, a reminder of what I glimpsed this morning in my kitchen.

"Holiday season means bigger crowds, bigger transactions, and more theft," he says. "Both petty and organized."

I nod, already pulling up the last quarter’s trend reports on my tablet. "Yeah, I flagged a spike in team-based losses last year. Mostly high-end merchandise, gone before the cameras caught anything useful."

He gives a small, appreciative nod. "Exactly. We’re talking professional-level theft rings. They send in people who blend into the crowd, work in coordinated units, and clear out entire displays before anyone even realizes what’s missing."

I glance up at him. "You think we’re already seeing signs?"

"Not full-scale yet," he says. "But yeah. I think someone’s testing the waters. Patterns in movement, item targeting, timing. It’s just too clean."

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the room. I cross one leg over the other and scan the latest analytics. "So, what’s our play?"

"For now, I keep watching. Track repeat foot traffic, analyze purchase habits, isolate blind spots. Build a net before they realize we’re onto them."

I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. "Sounds like we’re not dealing with amateurs."

"We’re not," he says, straightening. "You ready for Christmas in hell?"

I groan, slumping forward. "Kill me now."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "It'll be fine."

I scoff, feeling the pressure of responsibility settle across my shoulders. "I'm not so sure about that."

His attention is unwavering, focused entirely on me as he waits for me to elaborate.

I sigh, the sound heavy in the quiet apartment. "It's my first Christmas as the store manager."

That makes him pause.

I chew on my lip, suddenly anxious. My teeth worry the sensitive skin there, a nervous habit I've never been able to break. "It's all on me. The sales, the staffing, the freaking window displays. And if things go wrong⁠—"

"They won't."

But I shake my head, looking away. “I don’t know. There’s so much I wasn’t told before. Corporate never looped me in on any of this when I was assistant manager,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “And the last store manager… he kept things need-to-know, and apparently I never needed to know.”

“I’ve read the reports now. I’ve gone through the shrink logs, tracked the patterns, built out a response plan—but I’m still playing catch-up. And if you hadn’t filled me in about the theft rings, I’d still be flying blind.”

Something tightens in my chest. Not panic. Not incompetence. Just that cold, persistent pressure of responsibility pressing down.

“I can handle it. I will handle it. But it’s a lot. Coordinating staff, covering for gaps, prepping for the Christmas rush—which is always chaos even without the looming possibility of organized crime in the building?”

I rub my temples, feeling the early warning flare of a headache pulsing behind my eyes. “It’s just… a lot to hold all at once.”