"I want to get to know you more," she murmurs.

My movements are soft and easy against her skin. "What's there to know?"

She tilts her head up, narrowing her eyes. "Oh, come on, Callahan. There's plenty."

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Like what?"

"Well, for one, we're obviously trauma bonded at this point—at least, I am."

I bark out a laugh. "That's healthy."

She snickers. "Super healthy. But seriously. I want to know the stupid stuff about you."

I arch a brow. "Stupid stuff?"

She nods, looking up at me. "Yeah. Like your favorite color, your first car, and—oh, I don't know—whether or not you think you could take a chimp in a fight."

I stare at her. She stares back. Then, I burst out laughing. "Okay, first of all, what kind of fucking question is that?"

She shrugs innocently. "A valid one. You're all big and muscly. You look like you could punch through a brick wall. I'm just saying—could you take a chimp?"

I rub a hand over my face. "Izzy, chimps are fucking terrifying. That's a death sentence."

She gasps, dramatically clutching her chest. "You mean to tell me that Callahan, big strong security man, could lose to a chimpanzee?"

"Absolutely. Those fuckers go for the face first. I'd be dead in five seconds."

She bursts into laughter, burying her face in my chest.

I love the sound of it, loving the way she relaxes against me.

"Okay, okay, next question," I say, playing along.

She lifts her head. "Favorite color?"

I tilt my head, thinking. "Green, I guess."

Her eyes sparkle. "Like your eyes?"

I chuckle. "Something like that."

She nods, satisfied. "Mine's blue."

I smirk. "Like my favorite pair of panties you own?"

Her mouth drops open, a scandalized gasp slipping out before she swats at my chest. "You are ridiculous."

I catch her wrist before she can smack me again. "You love it."

She huffs but doesn't argue.

"Alright, my turn," I say, settling in. "First car?"

"You go first."

I shrug. "'99 Jeep Cherokee. Piece of shit, but it ran. Barely."

She giggles. "I had a Volkswagen Jetta. It broke down every other week, and my dad had to keep fixing it."

I chuckle. "Yeah, sounds about right."

She tilts her head. "Do you like cats or dogs more?"

I snort. "Dogs, obviously. But I respect a cat that acts like a dog."

"Okay, respectable."

I lift a brow. "What about you?"

"Both. But if I had to pick? Cats. They match my vibe better."

My lips twitch. "Because they're stubborn and refuse to admit when they like someone?"

She gasp-laughs, smacking my chest again.

"Exactly," she deadpans but I can see the smile in her expression.

"Alright. What's your weirdest fear?"

She grimaces. "Escalators."

I stare.

She nods seriously. "The thought of getting my shoelace caught and getting sucked into the gears and becoming a cautionary tale haunts me daily."

I bite down a laugh. "You don’t even wear shoes with laces!”

“My emotions are valid!” she laughs.

“Okay, yes, that is true, but that is the most bizarrely specific fear I've ever heard."

"Yeah, well, what's yours?" she challenges.

I pause, thinking.

Then, I shudder.

"Clowns."

Her face lights up with pure delight. "No fucking way."

I shake my head. "They're unnatural. No one smiles that much. It's creepy as hell."

She bursts into laughter again, burying her face in my chest. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, letting myself soak in the sound of her happiness.

Suddenly, she gasps and sits up. "Oh! I almost forgot!"

She leans over to her nightstand, pulling open the drawer. I watch, curious, as she rummages around before pulling out something that catches the light—a rosary with deep blue glass beads.

"Here," she says, holding it out to me. "I got this for you."

I stare at it, surprised. "A rosary?"

She nods, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "I asked my Nonna for another one. For you."

I take it carefully, feeling the smooth beads between my fingers. The blue is deep, almost the same shade as the night sky. "Izzy, I can't take this. It's⁠—"

"You're not taking it," she interrupts. "I'm giving it to you."

I run my thumb over the cross, oddly moved by the gesture. I'm not Catholic. Hell, I'm hardly religious at all. But the fact that she thought of me, that she wanted me to have something that matched hers⁠—

"Thank you," I say quietly.

She smiles, soft and genuine. "Keep it with you? For protection. Especially on the death machine?"

I nod, carefully placing it in my pocket. "Always."

It’s in that moment that I realize that I don't just want to protect her. I want to know her. All of her. Every stupid little thing. Every stupid little fear.

Because this? This feels like ours.

The warmth of her body against mine is damn near impossible to leave. Her fingers are still tracing mindless patterns on my skin, her breath soft and even against my chest.

We've been lying here for longer than I should allow. Longer than I have time for.

But fuck time. I'd give anything to stay right here.

A loud beep pierces the air. It's the alarm on my phone. I let out a slow exhale, reaching over to silence it. Izzy hums, stirring slightly, pressing herself closer to me. She doesn't want to get up.

That makes two of us.

I brush my lips against her forehead, reluctant as hell. "I gotta head to the store."

She makes a soft sound of protest, stretching her legs against mine. "Want me to come with you?"

I pause, looking down at her. She's blinking up at me, eyes still hazy with sleep, hair a mess, lips soft and kissable. And I know what she's doing. She doesn't want to be alone today. Not after the week she's had. And I don't want to leave her either.

But still⁠—

"I'd really rather you sleep."

She shakes her head, stubborn as ever. "No, it'd be good. I've taken an entire week off. I need to get ahead on things before Monday."

I frown slightly. "You sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. That way, I can just stay in the city after and meet Amanda later."

I study her for a long second, searching for any sign of hesitation. Then, finally, I tilt her chin up and press a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead.

"Okay, baby."

I feel the way she exhales against me, like the term of endearment settled deep into her bones.

I pull away, groaning as I stretch, dragging a hand through my hair. She yawns, rolling onto her side.

Neither of us move immediately. Neither of us want to. But I know—if I stay in this bed with her any longer, I'll never leave. So with one last lingering touch to her hip, I force myself up.

As I dress, I feel the rosary in my pocket and find myself oddly comforted by it.

AMANDA HAS ZERO FILTER

IZZY

Amanda's apartment is peak Amanda—a physical manifestation of her personality sprawled across fifteen hundred square feet of downtown real estate.

Trendy, modern, and obnoxiously extra in a way that should be annoying but somehow works because it's her. The exposed brick walls are covered in framed vintage posters of movies she's never actually seen but owns because "the aesthetic, Izzy, it's about the aesthetic." There are at least three neon signs scattered throughout the space that say absolutely nothing of value—one in the shape of lips, another spelling out "vibes" in cursive, the third just a lightning bolt that casts an electric blue glow over the kitchen island. The entire place smells like a combination of expensive candles with names like "Midnight in Paris" and "Cashmere Dreams" and whatever designer perfume she over-applied that morning before work.