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And the coffee table of natural wood with the raw edge exposed from the furniture craftsman in Rocky Ridge.

Molly stretches with a growly groan, her black-and-white pattern popping against the bright green fabric of the rug that spreads across the living room floor.

Through the windows, Ford’s truck appears. He gets out, the shirt of his uniform unbuttoned and untucked revealing his vest. He makes his way to the house, but there’s a slow slump in his step. He looks how I feel.

“Scotty,” he says, smiling slightly when he opens the door and sees me.

“Hey,” I say, not moving from the couch.

He pecks me on the lips and sits next to me with a heavy sigh. “Hey.”

I curl into him, tracing his face and neck with my fingers. “Where’s Wren?”

He drops his head back and looks at the ceiling. “At Becca’s studying.”

I snap upright. “The pint-sized Letts bitch? Why?”

“Because she asked.” He turns his head to face me without lifting it from the back of the couch.

“Listen, I know she’s not my kid, but I heard that little shit—”

He shakes his head. “Not now.” Then his eyes close and I can see the exhaustion all over him. His normally crisp uniform is stained with streaks of clay-colored mud, nearly hidden by the dark color of the fabric.

“Okay.” I swallow my argument and take his hand in mine. “Something happen?”

He opens his eyes, rolling his head on the back of the couch until his face is angled toward the ceiling. “There was an accident out on Highway 68. Seven-year-old kid was crushed in the back seat. I had to pull him out. They don’t think he’s going to make it.”

My eyes do a full-body scan looking for injuries, landing back on his uniform. The mud is blood. The boy’s. Ford is smeared in mortality and pain. I frame his tired face with my palms, desperately wishing I could absorb all the hurt from him and carry it as my own.

Around us, Miranda Lambert’s smooth, twangy voice sings about loss like a well-placed song in a sad movie.

Pull, don’t push.

I stand, tugging his hands in mine until he stands.

“Let’s get cleaned up.”

He doesn’t say anything, just follows me up the spiral staircase into the mid-renovation bathroom. The bathtub is the crown jewel: an oversized modern claw-foot, the biggest one I could buy.

“How are we going to get clean in here?” Ford asks with a slight smile from the doorway.

I chuckle as I toe my heels off, the new white octagonal tile a cool relief against my bare feet. “No shower. No sink. No working lights.” I wave a lighter through the air then light three pillar candles. The soft flicker of the flames dance against the aqua subway tiles on the wall. “But the tub works. And it’s gigantic.” I cut my eyes to him. “Big enough for Octoman.”

He makes an amused sound as he eyes the exposed pipe of the showerhead and the sinkless vanity, but he doesn’t argue, slipping off his uniform shirt and toeing his shoes off as I start the water and check the temperature with my fingers; it’s near scalding. I add a large pour of bubble bath, the scent of vanilla filling the air.

Ford takes his belt off—filled with all his cop paraphernalia—hanging it over the vanity before moving on to his pants. I cross the room and wrap my hands around his, stopping him. “Let me.”

He kisses me lightly, tilting his head in compliance.

The music downstairs shifts to another track—sexy and about wild mustangs—as I undo the Velcro straps of his bulletproof vest,working it off him and dropping it on the floor before moving to his pants, dragging them down his legs along with his briefs.

When I stand, I lift the bottom hem of his T-shirt, and he raises his arms as I pull it over his head. My hands go to his gunshot bruise, hardly faded at all, tracing it gently. A reminder of how life can change at the speed of a bullet. Then he’s there, naked and tattered as I stand completely clothed. It would be filthy if it wasn’t so tender. If looking at him didn’t feel so raw.

He kisses me, soft. “My turn.”

I shake my head, rubbing my cheek against his. “You get in.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but the lull of steamy water pouring into the bubble-filled bathtub wins. He steps in, making a face at the temperature that I laugh at while he slinks down into it.