He closed the door, locked it, and turned to the alarm panel just in time to punch in the code before it sent a signal to dispatch.

Then he walked through the kitchen, seeing the remains of vegetables, bowls filled with a bunch of shit, all of it looking healthy, packaging and wrappers everywhere, what looked like wet, torn paper tossed aside and a glass of wine that had seen spillage so there were stains on the counter.

He stopped behind Millie and saw three pots bubbling, the stove splattered and smeared, and she was bent over a skillet with boiling water in it, a piece of paper also in it that she was poking with some tongs.

She must have felt him because she said, like she was concentrating on something else, not speaking to him, “I just gotta get one of these fuckers in the water and out of it in one piece so we can stuff it and maybe eventually have dinner.”

“What the fuck is it?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, then back at the skillet.

“It’s rice paper.”

“What?”

“Rice paper,” she repeated in exasperation, grabbed an edge carefully, started to draw it from the water, reached out her other hand to take hold with her fingertips, and the thing tore down the middle. “Motherfucker!” she yelled, lifting the paper in her tongs and snapping it toward the counter where it splatted against several others of its kind and there it remained.

She reached immediately to a package and pulled out a round, thin, white thing, which she carefully slid into the water.

“Babe,” he called over her shoulder.

“What?” she asked, poking at the new piece with her tongs.

“What is dinner?” he asked.

“Homemade spring rolls,” she told the water.

He stared at her profile.

It was set and determined.

He took a slow step away.

Just as slowly, he turned his head and looked around the kitchen.

She was not working.

She was cooking.

The kitchen was not tidy.

It was a total, goddamned mess.

He looked to her.

She was not in high heels, a tight sweater, and a tighter skirt—sexy, but all class.

She was in loose-fitting pants that hugged her ass, girl slippers, and she had a thin sweater on.

Her hair was piled high on her head. It was not carefully arranged. It was slipshod and cute, curls escaping to brush her neck and cheeks.

“Babe,” he called.

“Hang on,” she said.

“Millie.”

“Hang on,” she repeated, and he saw her making another attempt to extricate the paper out of the skillet.

“Hallelujah!” she cried, whirling his way, intact paper dripping water to the floor between tongs and fingers.

The minute she stopped, it ripped down the middle.

She glared at it and shouted, “Goddamn it!”

High burst out laughing.

“This is not funny, Low. That’s like my seventh try! We’re never gonna eat at this rate.”

He kept laughing even as he declared, “I’m never gonna lose you.”

Her head jerked and he kept laughing since she was still holding the broken paper in her hand, looking adorable, her sweater from the front cut low, a vision he liked, as she asked, “What?”

“Never, baby, not ever. Never gonna lose you. Never gonna do shit to take away what I got back. Never gonna do shit to make it not worth it, all you gave to me. I’m not gonna go back there. That path didn’t feel right from the start. You at my side, it’s all kinds of wrong.”

“Low,” she whispered.

Top to toe he saw it written all over her.

She got him.

So, still chuckling, he got close to her and swept her (and her paper) in his arms.

It was wet against his chest.

He didn’t give a fuck.

“Stop worrying,” he ordered.

She stared up at him.

He let her go with one hand to take the paper and tongs out of her hands and toss them to the side.

The tongs clattered.

The paper splatted.

He just wrapped his arm back around her.

His Millie.

His girl.

The only woman he’d ever loved, the only woman he’d ever love.

He’d take her tidy, washing out her wineglass at night, getting cats who matched her house.

And he’d take her like this, cooking shit he probably did not want to eat and getting ticked as all hell doing it in a kitchen that was a disaster.

He’d take her however she came.

He’d take anything from her.

What he would not do was do shit that might make him lose her.

“Walked into a party, fell in love with you. Walked through fire when I lost you. Got you back. Nothin’, Millie, nothin’ will make me lose you. Hear?”

Her eyes were warm, but her question was hesitant. “Did someone... say something to you?”

They did.

She didn’t need to know that.

“The brothers are gonna do it right,” he told her.

They were, once he had words with Tack.

She studied him, doing it closely, taking her time, then she relaxed in his arms.

“Okay, Low,” she said quietly.

“Also not gonna eat fuckin’ spring rolls,” he told her.

She gave a slight jolt in his arms before her eyebrows drew together.

“It’s only partially healthy, Logan. The rest of it is all meat and sauce.”

“I hate spring rolls.”

Her brows stayed drawn. “It’s impossible to hate them. Everything in them is good.”

He looked to the side, then looked to her. “Sprouts?”

“They’re all water. They don’t even taste of anything.”

“Bullshit.”

“Logan—”

“Turn it all off. We’ll clean it up later. Now, I’m starved. We’re goin’ to Chipotle.”

“Logan!” she snapped. “I’ve been cooking for an hour.”

“Eat it for lunch,” he replied.

“You need to eat healthier,” she declared. “We both do.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s good for you and it’s a good habit to teach your daughters.”

“Think Deb’s got that covered, babe.”

She shut her mouth.

He had her there.

He let her go but grabbed her hand and dragged her to the door. “You got some tennis shoes or somethin’ to pull on?”

“Do I look like a woman who owns tennis shoes?”

He stopped and looked down at her. “You wanna get healthy and you don’t own tennis shoes?”

She looked to the wall.

He had her there too.

He started laughing again.

She looked back to him but only to glare.

“Babe, get some shoes,” he demanded.

“You go get Chipotle. I want spring rolls,” she replied.

“Get some shoes,” he repeated.

“Seriously, Low. This might be a disaster but it also might be really good,” she returned.

He pulled her close, bending his neck to get his face in hers.

“Get some shoes.”

“This is the bossy part I’m not fond of,” she announced.

He leaned back and lifted his brows. “You gonna send your man out in the cold alone to get his dinner?”

“And this is the heretofore unmentioned hot biker manipulation I’m not fond of.”

He again started laughing.

“Fortunately for you, I’m fond of that,” she said while he did it.

“What?” he asked, still laughing.

“You laughing.”

He stopped.

Then he remembered.

And once he remembered, he did something about it.

Because he’d come home but he hadn’t greeted his woman properly.

So he tugged her hand hard, felt her body hit his, and he saw to that.

When he was done, he was fighting going hard and had to keep doing it when he saw her face dazed.

“Turn off the shit, baby, get some shoes. Let’s go get dinner. Hear?”

“Hear,” she whispered breathily. Then she held his eyes and something drifted into them that, along with the sudden tightening of her body, made him brace before she said, “I found a counselor. I’m gonna go talk to her about what happened with Valenzuela.”

“You let me know when that shit goes down,” he stated immediately. “I’ll drive you.”

She relaxed in his arms.