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He flicked on the shower and ripped his shirt over his head. “Call you tomorrow. Love you.”

Fucking hell. Dinner was the last thing on his mind. Hunting was the best way to burn off that edge, but thanks to the nosy coroner’s heavy-handed setup, hunting wasn’t happening tonight.

He ducked under the showerhead. The contractor who had updated this house hadn’t counted on a six-foot-five demon hunter needing a decent shower. One of these days, he’d hit the hardware store and see if they made showerhead extensions or something. And learn how to replace it.

Or bite the bullet and call a plumber. Maybe add a few nozzles and upgrade the shit out of it. Actually, hell yeah, maybe add a goddamn wall of spray.

Takeout. He was not in the mood to cook, not even frozen pizza. Although, few foods bucked commitment as well as frozen pizza.

The doorbell chimed. He rinsed the last of the soap and shut off the water. Soaking wet, he stepped onto the mat and grabbed his phone.

Eryn stood politely on the doorstep. Navy-blue joggers, and a sports bra peeking out from under a gray jersey tank. Flip-flops. Wet hair and no makeup. Sexy as hell, snuggly and flushed. If she was trying to deter him with a cozy outfit, she was failing.

He was willing to bet she didn’t let herself fail at anything.

He unlocked the door from his app and said over the com, “Make yourself at home. I’ll be out in a sec.”

He dried and tossed the towel onto the hook, tugged on his jeans, pulled the shirt over his head, and took an extra moment to brush his teeth again.

Air stilled in his lungs. He forced breaths in and out through his nose.

It wasn’t the same. His dad was wrong.

Yes, Vann’s team was stronger than any other, thanks to a boost when they freed their demon ancestor from her prison. Beyond that, they were… different.

Ordinary hunters in the beginning, but even then, they didn’t shy away from the fights that would send most teams running scared. But the times they’d risked the fate of the world—because they knew they were the only ones who stood a chance at succeeding? Those were about saving the world.

This was personal. The fate of the entire world didn’t hang in the balance.

Only one life did.

His wife’s.

One more breath in, and he turned the knob. He really, really didn’t want to be celibate.

Eryn might be perfection personified. Just tonight. No risk, just pleasure.

No pressure… but fuck. A decade without sex was a decade without sex, no matter how long his lifespan, and no matter his reasons for avoiding attachment.

Bending forward, staring into the fridge, her ass was on a lovely display as she reached into the back. She surfaced with a pair of IPAs.

The moment she saw him, she squealed before laughing out loud. “Shit, you’re quiet.”

He shrugged and sauntered closer. “Sorry.” He handed her a glass from the cupboard. “You try these guys yet?”

While he poured his, she poured her own. “I have not. They’re downtown, right?”

“A new favorite double IPA.”

She cradled the glass in her hand, filled with amber hops, and took a slow sip. “Mmm, that is good. Hoppy without being heavy.” Damn, she even knew good beer.

“I thought I’d order delivery. My dad called while you were next door, and I’m not in the mood to cook now.”

“Uh-oh. Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He puffed his cheeks before exhaling a rush of air. The room was bleak as hell, still nothing but the threadbare sofa and his weapon-filled chest—now with a lock, for when the team brought kids, and handy in case a rare guest got nosy. No way he could explain why he owned—as Quinn called it—a chest full of pointy objects.

“Are you close with your dad?”