Page 345 of Property of Whiskey

“And yet here you stand without pants.”

I look at Whiskey.

He has become deeply fascinated by the pancake in his skillet.

Coward.

“I ain’t moved in.”

Wren raises one syrupy hand. “You have seven shirts here.”

I turn toward her. “How do you know that?”

“I counted.”

Whiskey starts laughing.

“You encouraged this.”

Wren slides a pancake toward the empty chair beside her. “Eat.”

I sit, and Whiskey brings me a plate without asking how I want anything because he already knows. Butter, not too much syrup, bacon on the side.

That should not feel as intimate as it does.

He bends and kisses the top of my head like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Like I live here.

I don’t live here.

After breakfast, I shower and put my uniform on for work.

Whiskey watches from the bedroom while I button my shirt, but the tension in his face isn’t what it was three weeks ago. There’s still some because he’s Whiskey and the man may die with some, but he doesn’t look at the badge like he’s competing with it anymore.

“You wrestling tonight?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Need me there?”

I pause with my hand on my duty belt and look at him. “Want you there.”

His eyebrows lift. “Different question.”

“Then yes.”

He smiles. “Better.”

“And no climbing in the ring.”

“No promises.”

“Whiskey.”

“Fine.”

“You said that like a liar.”