Before Dane met Patrick and found his happily ever after, he had to survive the Atlanta Fire Academy. The drills. The instructors. The thirty-two percent washout rate. And Micah Andre. Micah is loud, blond, and built like a man who bench-presses problems instead of solving them. He's an ex-Marine with a grin that never, ever stops. He's also Dane's drill partner, which means eight hours a day of shared ladders, gear checks, and the kind of physical proximity that would be fine — totally fine — if Dane could stop noticing the way Micah's curls fall across his forehead when he's concentrating. Or the way his laugh carries across a training yard. Or the way he says "Stoneface" like it's a term of endearment he hasn't admitted to yet. Dane didn't come to Atlanta to fall for anyone. He had a plan. The plan did not include a locker room incident that neither of them will talk about, a midnight diner conversation that ended with their lips locked, or a Puerto Rican firecracker named Sami who sees everything, says everything, and will absolutely end your bloodline if you make her cry in a bar. This is the story of Dane before Engine Four, before Patrick, back when he was just a quiet farm boy from Kansas with a jaw made of granite and a heart he hadn't learned how to use yet. It's a love story. It's a comedy. It's a prequel with a lot of fire and very little chill. They're going to burn so good.