“Whoever this person is, they’ve zeroed in on you, baby. He knows where we live,” Calvin continued. “He knows where and when to find you. You’re not staying here alone until I catch this son of a bitch.”
He was right, of course. And last night, more than anything, I’d wanted Calvin’s protection and safety. I still did. But when he talked in his cop voice—I just couldn’t help myself. It was like a knee-jerk reaction to ward off any perceived attack against my battered self-worth.
“My dad has a life,” I answered. “He can’t keep playing babysitter to histhirty-three-year-oldson. I know what happened was bad, but you can’t lock me up in a bunker!”
“Sebastian, in the six months I’ve known you, you’ve been stalked, shot at, blown up, run-over, and nearly bludgeoned with a hammer!” Calvin retorted, ticking the points off on his fingers.
“I didn’t go looking for—”
“You sure as hell did,” he interrupted.
I opened my mouth, closed it, then sputtered, “W-well, I didn’tthistime!”
“I’m not arguing with you,” Calvin said with a tone of finality.
“Yes, you are!”
“Sebastian—!”
The bagel popped from the toaster. Calvin startled suddenly at the noise, almost comically so. But there wasneveranything funny when moments like this happened. The oddest sounds still shook him, especially when he was stressed or running on fumes. Something as innocent as a fucking toaster could spark Calvin’s PTSD, send him back in time to witness a horror from war all over again.
He’d been seeing a therapist for a few months now, but let’s be honest. It could take years before Calvin was able to swallow the guilt he carried with him and admit the lives lost overseas were not his burden to bear. This disorder might always be a part of him. The best we could hope for was managing it. A shouting match over the same old bullshit was not the way to go about keeping Calvin from slipping into the bad habits we’d both been working so hard to eradicate from his routine.
“Calvin.” I immediately reached out to take his face into my hands.
He startled again.
“Stay here with me.” I pulled him flush against myself. “Where are you?”
Calvin swallowed and took a deep breath. His eyes were a little glassy. “With you,” he whispered.
“In our kitchen.”
“In our kitchen,” he agreed.
“In New York.”
Calvin nodded. “New York,” he echoed. He swallowed hard a few more times, as if he’d just been in a fight for his very life. A tear rolled down one cheek. “New York,” he said again, a bit louder. He pushed his arms through mine and wrapped them around my back, letting his forehead rest on my shoulder.
I rubbed his back. “I’m sorry.”
Calvin squeezed me tighter in response. His big frame and powerful muscles all but engulfed me. Dillon whined, and I craned my head to see him staring up at us. He raised a paw and scratched at Calvin’s leg a few times.
I bent my knees and eased us both to the floor. “Sit right here.” I waited for Calvin to rest his back against the bottom cupboards before I straightened. I put his bagel on a plate and offered it. “Take this.” I grabbed our mugs next, then settled beside him. “And this.”
Dillon had moved to Calvin’s right side and put his head down on his thigh. That dogknewwhen he needed help being secured in the present. Pop couldn’t have picked Calvin a better companion.
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
I held Calvin’s bicep and kept my head on his shoulder. Anchoring. Like Dillon.
Calvin petted Dillon with one hand. His other, wrapped around the mug, twitched. “It startled me,” he finally said, before adding unnecessary clarification. “The toaster.”
I nodded.
“Iknowit doesn’t sound anything like gunfire,” he continued, his voice thick.
“Being Detective Winter is easier,” I said for him.
