He cares about her, of course, and would do just about anything for her simply because she is—was—is Bobby’s kid. He genuinely likes May. She’s matured into someone Buck would be proud to call a friend. But when she walks up the firehouse loft in her crisp, blue uniform, thick-heeled shoes clipping purposefully across the polished wooden floor, he digs his nails into his palms and bites back the sudden urge to leap up from the table and hide amongst the bunks like a weirdo.
Maybe it’s how fresh out of the packaging she looks in her uniform. There are hardly any wrinkles and definitely no tears or stains. Her dark hair is pulled away from her face, held at the back of her neck in a tidy bun. She looks unruffled, looks too shiny and new.