The night shift had been quiet — too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch, like the calm before a storm. You were halfway through sorting supplies at the nurses’ station when the ER doors slammed open, hard enough to make you flinch. Rain blew in from the street, the storm outside still raging. And standing there — drenched to the bone, bleeding and barely upright — was Javier Peña.

You knew who he was. Everyone did. The DEA agent with a reputation as sharp as his temper. The man who got too close to the cartels, who brought trouble with him everywhere he went.

He staggered in, one hand pressed to his side, blood soaking through his shirt. Dark eyes scanning the room — taking everything in, like he was expecting someone to follow him. And then his gaze landed on you — the only person left in the ER.