“What happened?” Stepping in, I glance around the apartment, looking for whoever it is that has her crying in her house at night.

“No one is here, Rafe.” When she turns toward me, I see the red spots across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes are wet and swollen. Quickly, I move toward her, eager to fix whatever is wrong with her. Did I do this?

“I’m fine, I promise,” she cries.

“Then what is it?”

“I had a rough day at work, and I forgot to put the rope on the door. I’m sorry.” She holds a tissue to her face and takes long breaths, but her lip still shakes. I don't say anything; what the hell would I say?

When she finally gets her tears under control enough to talk, she composes herself and looks at me. “I’m used to this job, I really am, but after so long, it just tends to become too much, you know? I’m strong, but I’m not made of ice, and you can only watch so many people die before you need to just have a good cry.”

Jesus. What the fuck am I going to say to that?

“I can’t imagine,” I say.

“One of my favorites took a turn for the worse, and it never gets easier when the hope you want never comes. It just makes me so fucking mad, Rafe. Mad for them. Mad for their families. It’s not fair.” A sob slips through her lips as she cries into her wet tissue. Carefully, I reach my hands out to her arms, but she holds herself away from me. This is how accustomed she is to my needs. She won’t lean in for a hug, even when she’s the one who needs it.

Then, I get an idea. I can’t give her the affection or support she wants, but I can offer her something that I think is even better.

“Put on some workout clothes and meet me downstairs,” I say, pulling away and moving toward the door.

“What?” she asks, but I’m already out the door.

A few moments later she walks into my little makeshift gym in a pair of tight yoga pants and a sports bra that holds her breasts up, threatening to distract me from what I’m supposed to be focusing on.

“What are we doing?” she asks. She’s not crying anymore, but her face is still swollen and tired looking.

“You have some stuff to work out.” I pull her toward me and hold each of her hands in mine. Carefully, I slide on the glove, covering her knuckles and protecting her wrist. Her soft hands in mine make me want to kiss her. Instead, I tighten the velcro and put her hands out in front of her, guarding her face.

“Strike straight forward, and hit the bag here,” I direct her, pointing to the worn out spots from my punches.

She doesn’t hesitate before she lays three solid hits on the bag. The impact is strong, and I sense the frustration coming from her movement.