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Her face softens. “Aw.”

“Don't fucking aw me.”

“You were worried.”

“You told me you swallowed metal.”

“You were really worried.”

“Where. Is. The. Key?”

She considers me like she's deciding whether I'm trustworthy enough to receive classified information about my own handcuff key.

Then she reaches toward the pillow. Her fingers slide beneath it. And come back empty.

Her eyebrows pull together.

I go still.

She checks again. Nothing.

“Callie.”

“Hold on.”

“Where is the key?”

“It was under my pillow.”

Was.

I close my eyes.

Of fucking course.

I wake up handcuffed to a woman who broke into my house, and now we've lost the key.

Beside me, Callie lifts the pillow. “Hmm.”

My eyes open. “Hmm?”

“Don't panic.”

“I'm not panicking.”

“You have a vein on your forehead doing something.”

“I always have veins.”

“Not like that one.”

“Find the fucking key.”

She starts pulling at the blankets. Which means I have to move with her.

We manage about ten seconds before the bedroom door creaks.

Both of us stop.