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My gaze moves to the coffee table. A heating pad, ice pack, two coffees, and a half-eaten bagel lie on it.

I reach for my coffee and take a drink from the ridiculous Thanksgiving mug Callie bought me.

It matches hers.

A few weeks ago, I would've questioned why the fuck I needed a Thanksgiving mug.

Now I use it without thinking.

Her purse sits by the couch, along with the ruined shoes in a plastic hospital bag because Callie insisted on keeping them.

I don't know why. I didn't ask. I've learned some things aren't worth the argument.

Callie shifts. I immediately look at her.

“Roman.”

“What?”

“You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching me breathe.”

“I'm not watching you breathe.”

Her lips twitch. “You absolutely are.”

I don't give a fuck.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I heard a gunshot and feared she’d never breathe again. I'll watch her fucking breathe as long as I want.

A knock sounds at the door.

I stand.

Callie starts to move.

“Stay.”

Her eyes narrow.

I point at the couch. “You were almost unconscious on your feet twenty minutes ago.”

“I was tired.”

“Exactly.”

“Roman.”

Another knock.

I walk toward the door.

Behind me, she mutters, “Bossy asshole.”

Alibi's tail thumps against the couch.