“It’s different with guys,” Rowan says instead.

“I know you don’t believe in that sexist BS.”

Rowan sighs. “No. But even if I did want something else—which I don’t—we agreed on a casual thing. And I’m not gonna ruin fantastic sex ’cause I caught feelings.”

“Fantastic, huh?” Addison laughs.

“You have no idea.”

“Well, you better lock that shit down before someone else snatches him up.”

“Again, not gonna happen.”

“You never know,” Addison insists in a singsong voice.

Her refusal to drop the subject is getting on Rowan’s nerves.

“I do know. The only thing we talk about is sex. We don’t hang out outside of hookups, and we don’t even kiss when we’re fucking.”

He leaves out the fact that their fucking requires much more vulnerability, communication, and trust than what she’s probably assuming.

“All right, all right, down, killer,” she says.

Mercifully, a call comes in right then, abruptly ending their conversation. Rowan’s never been so glad for someone to be injured.

THE CALL is Rowan’s least favorite kind. Domestic abuse.

They race to the scene—a narrow, rundown house on the outskirts of the Back Bay. Two police cars light up the dismal gray area with flashing blue lights that always make Rowan’s nerves fray—a harsh reminder of all the times he’s run from those exact lights in the past and the one time he couldn’t.

He pushes aside thoughts of police and actions that aren’t entirely his own and climbs out of the ambulance with Addison in time to see a burly man being handcuffed against a squad car.

On the porch steps is a young woman, early- to mid-twenties, maybe, hunched in on herself and staunchly ignoring the police officer trying, presumably, to take her statement.

But Rowan has authority here.

“Paramedics! Clear the way,” he calls.

The cops begrudgingly make way for them and hover a few feet away as Rowan kneels at the woman’s side. She’s thin and pale, her long, straight black hair splayed across her shoulders and casting a dark curtain over her face.

Rowan does a quick external exam of what he can see, noting that she’s cradling her arm in her lap.

“Hi, I’m Rowan. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

She shakily holds her right arm out. “Just my arm.”

Rowan quickly pulls a pair of gloves on, asking, “No head or back injuries?”

“No. Aside from….” She gestures to her left eye.

For the first time, she looks up, and Rowan is struck by her eyes. Teary, rimmed red, mascara starting to run down her cheeks, a bruise already starting to form around her left eye socket.

But shockingly golden. Bright and piercing even brimmed with tears.

Fuck, she looks exactly like Mal. Her coloration, slim build, facial structure… down to her cheekbones and the curve of her jaw. And of course those gold fucking eyes. So similar to the ones that Rowan had made cry a few weeks ago for an entirely different reason that it nearly makes him forget himself.