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He cackles. “I knew you liked her.”

“I don’t⁠—”

“Don’t fucking lie, Hot Lips.”

“I don’t care.” I put the groceries away so I can keep my back to him. But Beck’s laughter follows me around the small kitchen.

“Bullshit. You cared when I gave you the update on Halloween.”

I don’t say a word.

A few minutes later, he’s standing beside me.

“Here’s her Instagram page.” He holds his phone up. “You know, in case you actually care.”

I glance at it. Blonde curls. Green eyes. That fucking smile.

I look away. “I don’t.”

Beck snorts.

I ignore him.

One glance was enough.

Callie Quinn.

Below it is her username: @calliequinn.

I haven't created an account. And I'm not going to. Probably.

I change the subject. “You want something to drink?”

“Water’s good.”

I grab two from the fridge and hand him one.

As I unscrew the lid, I say, “I’m still pissed you called Bishop and squealed.”

He takes a drink, his eyes on me. “I was trying to protect you, asshole. Get a crew over there before they found your blood everywhere.”

“My blood wasn’t everywhere.”

“Wasn’t it?” He shakes his head. “You were in worse shape than you thought. You left droplets on the floor. A bloody towel you never took with you.”

I freeze. That is sloppy.

“How’s the wound?”

“Dr. Pierce said he’s seen worse.”

“Of course he has.” Beck sets his bottle down. “He’s seen fatal wounds, asshole.”

I take another drink.

“What did he say about the stitches?”

“Said he’s seen worse.”