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“He thinks it’s annoying to make.”

“Because it fucking is,” I told him around a mouthful of peppers and tofu.

“Which is why giving him some would make him happy,” Taavi pointed out.

I guess I knew what I was doing over the weekend. Ward had told me to take a few days off, and that he’d see me Monday morning. I was going to show up with Kouign Amann—because I’m a show-off—and probably some chocolate twists.

“In fact,” Taavi suggested, getting into the idea of making me slave over puff pastry, “you could freeze some extra sheets for him.” I kind of hated that it was a good idea, because now I had todoit, and puff pastry is a fuckingbitch.

* * *

Once I’d hadmy nap, I was no longer tired. And, post-noodles, no longer hungry. Since we hadn’t actually had the chance to really cuddle and watch movies in over a month, Taavi suggested we find something new that was streaming—good, bad, or ugly—and watch that. I handed over the remote and went to the kitchen while he picked whatever he wanted. I wasn’t a big movie buff, so I didn’t really care what we watched. I mostly just wanted to relax with Taavi andjustTaavi for the first time in what felt like for-fucking-ever.

I rooted through the cabinets and managed to come out with an unopened box of graham crackers, some semi-sweet baking chocolate, and a bag of marshmallows. I’m not the biggest fan of marshmallows, but Ward was, so I kept a bag or two on hand for when I needed to bribe my boss with sugar.

I lacked most of the basic necessities for baking, but I could absolutely make oven s’mores—I had the three ingredients and I had a broiler. I could even fancy it up with a little cinnamon and vanilla sugar—and I was probably still going to get done before Taavi actually settled on something to watch.

As it turned out, he’d found something—and had it waiting on the production studio screen—when I came back out with a couple plates of oven s’mores.

He laughed. “Trust you to come up with something to bake in this house.”

I handed him a plate. “You know you love me for my baking.”

He grinned at me and picked up a s’more. “Among other things.”

We got settled, with me as the very lanky little spoon, since Taavi didn’t want to lean back against my stitches. I was also honestly less of a spoon than Taavi was one of those reading pillows, because my head was on his abdomen, one of my legs bent, the other essentially hanging off the end of the couch.

He hit play and I watched the little swirling stars of the Paramount movie logo.

I laughed when the movie actually started. “Old-school Star Trek?”

“You don’t like Trek?”

“I like Trek just fine,” I replied. “I just didn’t know you did.”

His fingers combed through my shortish hair. “I like lots of things.”

As we watched the movie, I could practically feel the tension leaving my body. All the stress, all the freaking out, the worry, and the anxiety about Gregory’s death, about finding his killers, about Elliot, about being a terrible son and a worse boyfriend—all of it slipped under the surface. I was relaxed on the couch, Taavi’s warm strength behind me and Pet curled up in the crook of my knee. I didn’t have work for another five days so I could get my shit back together, but I had a job I didn’t hate to go backto.

“So when do I get to see?” Taavi asked me, as the movie’s credits ran.

“See what?”

“The tattoo, Val.”

“Oh.” It had stopped itching, so I’d completely forgotten. I sat up carefully and pulled off my flannel, then went to roll up my long-sleeved t-shirt. Taavi stopped me with a hand on my arm, and I arched an eyebrow at him.

He took the hem of my shirt, and tugged gently. “This will be easier.”

“Easier,” I repeated, feeling a smirk curving my lips.

“Mmhmm.” His hands were already pulling the shirt over my head. I let him, deliberately forcing myself not to shiver as the cooler air in the apartment hit my skin.

“You know it’s just on my arm, right?”

He reached out and gently pulled my arm towards him, rotated so that the inside of my forearm—with the gauze pad taped to it—was facing up. He scooted a little closer, so that he could essentially cradle my arm, and began very gently picking at the tape with one fingernail. A fingernail that was very slightly longer, darker, and thicker than his other ones.

“Not that I’m complaining, but you know that’s not normal, right?” I asked him.