Page 115 of Pistols & Peonies

She snorts, unimpressed. “Eat before it gets cold, Commander,” she says, eyes flicking toward the takeout cartons. “You’re late.”

I’m not, but I don’t argue. Instead, I take my time stripping off my jacket, dragging the moment out. Because this whole scene– her on my couch, my shirt on her body, food waiting like this is something we do every night– is still new enough that I don’t trust it not to vanish if I move too fast.

It feels like something we chose.

Like something I’d choose again, over and over.

I drape my jacket over the back of a chair, then start toward the bar cart. “Whiskey?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Please,” she groans.

I pour two glasses, taking a sip from mine as I carry them back over to the couch.

She pushes herself up, reaching out with grabby hands as I approach. I pass her a glass, then drop down onto the sofa beside her. She takes a sip of the liquor, head tilting back, throat working slowly as her shoulders sink into the cushions, tension draining out of her in real time.

I nudge her knee with mine. “What’s got you needing to take the edge off?”

“You mean other than the usual bullshit?” she asks as she lowers her glass, a brittle laugh slipping out. Her tongue sweeps over her bottom lip, catching the last drop of whiskey.

My gaze tracks it automatically.

“Talked to my mom today,” she sighs, leaning forward to set her glass on the coffee table and swiping up a takeout box.

The movement shifts her closer, the fabric of my shirt stretching across her spine as she bends. I hone in on every detail– the slide of cotton over skin, the way her shorts ride higher on her thighs as she settles again.

“Turns out she got her preserve assignment for the full moon run permanently switched to Forest Glen,” she continues, breaking apart the chopsticks with more force than necessary. “She’s acting like it’s some kind of presidential appointment, even though she clearly leveraged our… situation to get her own way.”

“I’ll get it switched back,” I murmur. Should be easy enough.

“Nah,” she sighs, waving me off. “I figure one forced interaction a month covers my quota. My wolf has to run anyways, so two birds, one stone.”

I nod, letting it drop, though the instinct to fix it somehow doesn’t go away. There’s something about our bond that makes me want to solve all her problems, remove obstacles before they ever touch her. Even when I know damn well that she doesn’t want or need that and would probably bite me if I pushed too hard.

“So,” she says after a beat, like she’s consciously shifting gears. “How was your day? Any bombs, betrayals, or sudden regime changes?”

I lean back into the cushions, propping my ankle on my knee as she pops open her takeout carton and dunks her chopsticks inside. “Other than the usual bullshit?” I echo, smirking faintly. “It was… interesting, actually. I met with the owner of Eclipse Nightclub.”

She freezes, eyes snapping to mine, chopsticks halfway to her mouth. “Oh?”

I nod, reaching for my own box of noodles on the table. “He appreciated that I came to him directly,” I say, setting it on my lap and breaking apart the chopsticks. “He wants to keep the fight nights going, but on the books this time. He even mentioned expanding that part of the business.”

Her gaze sharpens, interest sparking.

“He said he’d probably need to hire someone to coordinate them,” I continue casually, glancing up at her. “I suggested you might be interested.”

Her jaw tightens, walls snapping back into place so fast it’s almost audible. “Thought I told you I don’t need you to get me a job,” she grumbles, stabbing her chopsticks back into the carton.

I lift both hands in surrender. “Hey, all I did was throw your name into the hat. Whether he offers is up to him, and whether you take the job is up to you.” I hold her gaze, letting her see I’m not trying to corner her or control the outcome. Just… opening a door.

She relaxes fractionally, rolling her eyes as she picks up her chopsticks again. “You know if I took that job, I wouldn’t be able to keep my ass out of the ring.”

“Figured you wouldn’t,” I reply, digging into my noodles.

She studies me, skepticism lifting her brows. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Honestly?” I meet her eyes. “If it makes you happy, then you should do it. Just… maybe stick to female opponents. If I see another man’s hands on you, I can’t guarantee I won’t rip his throat out.”

She grins, all teeth and trouble. “Possessive much?”