The Santa Barbara sun was merciless that afternoon, beating down on the pavement outside the old storage facility where Lassiter and you had followed up on a lead. A string of break-ins had pointed to this place, and true to Lassiter’s instincts, something shady had been going on. What they didn’t expect was to walk into an ambush.

Gunshots had rung out. Chaos. A scuffle. And then silence.

Your heart pounded in your ears as you ducked behind a stack of crates, weapon drawn. “Lassie?” you called out, voice tight.

No answer.

You bolted from your hiding spot, scanning the room—and then you saw him. Carlton Lassiter, your grumpy, sharp-tongued partner and… something more you refused to name, was lying motionless on the concrete floor.

“No, no, no—Carlton!” You dropped beside him, your weapon forgotten.

He was pale. So pale. And he wasn’t breathing.

You didn’t think. Training kicked in.

“Call it in!” you barked over your shoulder to an officer entering behind you, already positioning yourself over him. You tore open his button-down, trying not to register the sight of his chest or how wrong it felt seeing it still.

You placed your hands over his sternum and started compressions. “Come on, you stubborn idiot, don’t do this. Not like this.”

Your arms shook, but you didn’t stop. 1, 2, 3…

“You owe me dinner, remember? You said if I solved that triple homicide first, you’d actually eat at a place with cloth napkins.”

You tilted his head, pinched his nose, and gave two rescue breaths, tasting dust and panic.

“You are not dying in some godforsaken storage unit, do you hear me?”

Another round of compressions.

His chest rose—just slightly—and you froze. Then he gasped, eyes flying open as his body jolted, coughing violently.

“Jesus,” he rasped, blinking up at you.