Page 31 of Canvas’ Muse

Three car accidents, two heart attacks, a kitchen fire victim, and a kid who decided to see if he could fly off the playground equipment. Spoiler: he couldn't. I spent twelve hours running between patients, stitching wounds, starting IVs, and talking terrified family members through the worst moments of their lives.

I'm exhausted. My feet hurt. There's dried blood on my scrubs that I'm ninety percent sure isn't mine. And all I want to do is go home, take a shower, and curl up with Davis on the couch while we argue about whether Kaladin or Dalinar is the better character in Stormlight Archive.

Home.

It's funny how that word changed meaning two years ago. Home used to be an apartment I barely spent time in, a place to sleep between shifts. Now it's a house on the outskirts of Millhaven that Davis and I bought a year ago. Three bedrooms, a big kitchen, a garage he converted into his private tattoo studio for special clients. A space that's entirely ours.

Our home.

I pull into the driveway, noting Davis's bike is already here. His studio downtown—the new one, bigger and better than before—closes at six on Thursdays, so he's probably been home for an hour already.

The war with the Vipers ended months ago. It got ugly first, a lot uglier than any of us expected. There were more shootings, more injuries, more close calls that still wake me up at night sometimes. But the Iron Phoenix won. They found the Vipers' lookout, dismantled their operation piece by piece, and eventually they killed Demon.

The Vipers scattered after that. Some went to ground. Some patched over to other clubs. Some just disappeared. And the Iron Phoenix became the club that protected Millhaven and the surrounding area: the good guys, the ones people call when they need help.

Davis was right. The strong protect the weak. That's what they do. What we do, because I'm part of it now too. Official old lady status, wearing Davis's mark in ink on my ribs where he tattooed his club symbol mixed with a dragon that matches the one on my thigh.

I unlock the front door and step inside, immediately smelling something delicious cooking.

"Davis?" I call out, kicking off my shoes in the entryway.

"Kitchen!"

I make my way through the living room, decorated with a mix of my fantasy novel collection and his framed tattoo designs, and into the kitchen. Davis is at the stove, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, his shoulder fully healed now though he claims it still aches when it rains. His tattooed arms are on full display, and I still get that flutter in my stomach when I look at him.

Two years, and he still makes me feel like a teenager with her first crush.

"You're cooking?" I raise an eyebrow. "Did I forget an anniversary or something?"

"Can't a man cook for his woman without it being a special occasion?" He turns, grinning. "Besides, you had a twelve-hour shift. Figured you'd be hungry."

"Starving." I move closer, wrapping my arms around him from behind. "What are we having?"

"Chicken alfredo. Your favorite." He reaches back to run his hand down my arm. "How was work?"

"Chaotic. Long. Bloody. The usual." I rest my cheek against his back, breathing him in, strawberry shampoo and sandalwood. "But I'm here now, and you're cooking, so it's already getting better."

"Good." He turns in my arms, kissing me. "Go shower. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."

I don't argue. The shower is calling my name, along with clean clothes that don't smell like antiseptic and other people's emergencies.

The bathroom is a sanctuary. Big soaking tub, separate shower with multiple heads, heated floors that Davis insisted on installing himself. I strip off my scrubs, tossing them in the hamper, and step under the hot spray.

The water washes away the stress of the day, the aches in my muscles, the weight of twelve hours in trauma. I take my time, washing my hair twice, shaving my legs even though I'm too tired for anything more than cuddling tonight.

When I finally emerge, wrapped in my favorite fluffy robe, I feel human again. I pull on leggings and one of Davis's old Iron Phoenix t-shirts, the one that's worn soft from a hundred washings and smells like him. Then I pad barefoot back to the kitchen.

Davis has the table set. Candles lit. Two plates of perfect chicken alfredo waiting. A bottle of wine open and breathing.

I stop in the doorway. "Okay, seriously. What's the occasion?"

"No occasion." But there's something odd in his voice. "Just wanted to do something nice for you."

"Davis Beckett." I cross my arms, studying him. "We've been together for two years. I know when you're hiding something."

"I'm not hiding anything." He's definitely hiding something. "Can't I just want to make my woman a nice dinner?"

"You can, but you're acting weird about it." I move to the table, sitting down. "Spill."