Damon stared uncomprehendingly. “Your name is Micah Gallagher,” he said after a beat. “You’re an ex-prostitute, who used to sell your body on the streets before I found you.” (Before I saved you, is what he meant.) Damon’s voice was like steel – hard and unyielding – daring Micah to deny it.

And Micah really, really didn’t want to.

“My name is Micah Hart,” he said anyway, voice soft, sorrowful, but ringing with truth – the opposite of Damon’s, really. “And… and I’m a detective of the same precinct.”

Micah could only watch as Damon’s eyes emptied of emotion and became vacant, hollow things. A voice in Micah’s head screamed at him to fix it as the wild creature who’d shown up on the scene mere minutes ago became something closer resembling a cold, emotionless machine.

Damon’s expression – his voice – was completely unreadable as he turned to face Tracy, the medic, who Micah hadn’t even realized had returned from the front of the ambulance. “Is he going to be okay?”

Micah wanted to believe it was a good sign he’d asked – the man must have still cared, at least a little. But how wooden and detached Damon sounded took away from any relief Micah might have felt.

“Micah has a minor concussion along with some scrapes and bruises, but with some rest and classic TLC, he should make a full recovery.” She sounded entirely too sprightly considering the situation, somehow misreading the mood of her audience.

But what about my heart? Micah wanted to scream.

It was like a vice in his chest, constricting somehow further when Damon merely nodded at her before taking a pointed step backward. Micah wanted to shout for him to come back – wanted to somehow come up with the words to explain. But he didn’t think he was capable of speech at the moment. His chest was too tight, and his throat felt inexplicably swollen – like the time he’d foolishly attempted to eat fried shrimp as a kid.

But then, without sparing Micah so much as another glance, Damon was walking away – and Micah found he was capable of words, after all.

“Damon, wait!” He sprang up from the stretcher, ignoring the immediate dizziness that followed. “I’m sorry! Let me explain, please. I didn’t mean to-!”

Abram and Jensen each had an arm locked around an elbow before Micah could take more than a few wobbly steps forward. Tessa helped them corral him back onto the stretcher, all three of them attempting to calm him.

“You have a concussion, Micah.”

“That’s enough now. You need to rest.”

“Let him go, son.”

But Micah didn’t want to let him go.