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JACK

“That’s not your usual book,” Anderson says as he flops next to me on the couch.

The clean-up crew for this week just finished tidying up after dinner, the lemon and lavender scent from the all-purpose cleaner still lingering in the air.

“And why do you have a pen to read? Taking notes on scenes you want to act out with a certain someone?” I turn to see him wiggling his brows.

I set my pen and the book I’m annotating down on my lap, lifting my reading glasses off my nose before looking right at Anderson. “Why don’t you tell me what exactly you’re implying, so I can be sure you deserve it when I punch you square in the jaw.”

Anderson puts his hands up in surrender. “I’ll shut up.”

I nod, appeased, and put my reading glasses back on, picking my book and pen back up.

I’m currently rereading the Twilight books, having mentioned to my mom how Rumi has never read them. She was so excited to dig up her old copies for me to give to her.

Initially, I thought about just bringing them over when I go see Rumi after I’m done with this shift tomorrow morning; however, my curiosity got the best of me—wondering if I’d enjoy the books as much as I did when I read the first of the series for my mom’s book club and then the rest on my own.

With some down time today, I picked up the first book and immediately knew Rumi would like it.

I’ve read a few of her paranormal romance books in the last few months, and this is right up her alley in young adult form.

I thought it would be fun to put my thoughts in the margins and underline my favorite lines in hopes that it’ll make the books she’s refused to read even more enjoyable.

Her refusal started off with the argument against Ava that there were other books she wanted to read more , but ever since finding out both Emerson and I have ample Twilight knowledge, I think Rumi’s refusal is more out of stubbornness and not letting Ava win.

Anderson joins another conversation with the other guys on the couch, and I go back to my reading, trying to not let my mind wander the same way it has since seeing Rumi this morning.

The world’s toughest feat.

I think about her the moment I wake up, only taking a break when I fall asleep, and every single moment in between.

Waking up next to her on Sunday was a dream.

I hated Sundays, until I woke up that morning with her in my bed.

The only thing missing was a baby monitor on the bedside table, knowing Evee was just in the next room over.

I want that— need that.

Having the two of them with me is a need, the same one my lungs have for clear air to breathe.

And that’s why I’m going to ask her to move in with me.

Fuck taking it slow.

I’ve known from the moment I laid eyes on Rumi that she would be my peace. She would be the solace I so desperately ached for.

And now that she’s mine, I refuse to not have all of her.

I want the lazy Sundays, tired Mondays, busy Tuesdays, and all the days that follow.

I want to come home to her after my shift and be waiting for her when she comes home from hers; I want to decorate a room for Evee and do it all over again in a few years and then again a few years after that.

I want this house of mine to be ours , along with the life I got back this year.

Never in a million years did I think I would live a life that wasn’t just going through the motions—I didn’t think I was capable of having one after losing Bennett.

Whether or not he was my soulmate like Rumi said, I was missing part of myself for so long—a part I’ve realized I might never get back.

But in this process of healing, I found Rumi and Evee, the two that make me feel whole again, like this life is worth living, not just for Bennett but for me too.

I realize I’m just staring at the opened book on my lap, not registering a single word when the familiar chaos of a call erupts, the computerized voice dispatching the emergency we’re being called into.

As we all file down the stairs, we hear it’s a routine call—domestic dispute, called in by a neighbor.

It sounds like the caller heard yelling and a baby crying in the house next door to hers.

Since it’s a smaller emergency, and we don’t know what else we’ll get hit with tonight, I give orders to those I want headed to the location—an address I don’t quite make out over my own voice booming through the station.

I decide to stay back with Anderson and the rest of the crew in case we get another call.

“Think it’ll be a busy night?” Anderson asks as we watch them leave in the truck, sirens blaring, and the lights from the truck mixing with the low sunlight as sunset slowly approaches.

“I hope not,” I say, turning to head to the gym, wanting to blow off some of this adrenaline in case we get called into something else.

A domestic dispute is never an easy call to get, especially knowing the kind of monsters that are out there and the victims they endanger.

They are the types of calls that have recently started to hit a little closer to home for me.