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“We have dinner all the time.”
“Fancy dinner.”
“You own one button-up shirt.”
“Two.”
“One has blood on it.”
“Not mine.”
“That does not help.”
He grins. “Seven.”
“Fine.”
“No work clothes.”
I lift one eyebrow.
He immediately corrects himself.
“Would you like to wear something other than work clothes?”
I point at him. “You almost died.”
“Caught it.”
Mercy watches us over her paperwork.
“Exhausting.”
“You created this,” Bitter tells her.
“I improved it.”
He kisses my temple, something he does without asking now because months ago I told him he does not have to request permission before every small affection.
Consent can become familiarity too.
Then he leaves to handle whatever enforcers do when they are not delivering sandwiches to mortuary students.
I finish Mr. Avery.
He looks like himself.
His daughter cries when she sees him.
Good crying.
That might be my favorite kind of praise.
By seven, I have showered, changed into a black dress with tiny red roses, and spent ten minutes arguing with myself over whether the neckline is too much for dinner with a biker.
Then I remember who I date.
I lower it slightly.
