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I park underneath and scan before I let her out.

She notices.

Of course she does.

“You always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Look for the thing that might kill you before enjoying the thing that won’t.”

I cut the engine. “Yeah.”

She nods like she understands too well.

Inside, my apartment smells like leather, gun oil, cedar, and coffee. It has a couch, a kitchen barely big enough for two people, a bed behind a half wall, and too many boots by the door. My mama calls it a den. Nevermore calls it depressing. Boogie calls it better than his place because my bathroom door locks.

Sweet steps inside carefully.

I set her suitcase by the bed. “You sleep there.”

Her eyes go to the bed, then the couch. “You said you’d take the couch.”

“I will.”

“You’re too big for that couch.”

“Won’t be the first thing too small for me.”

Her cheeks flush.

I smile before I can stop it.

She points at me. “Do not start with me, Bitter Adams.”

“I ain’t started nothing.”

“You started with your face.”

“My face does what it wants.”

“I’ve noticed.”

I lock the door, then the deadbolt, then set the steel bar.

Sweet watches every move.

Not scared of me.

Scared of needing that many locks.

I hate Razor Maddox more by the second.

“You hungry?”

She blinks. “What?”

“You had crackers, moonshine, and trauma for lunch. That ain’t a meal.”