Page 300 of Operation: Defiance

I stare at them. Then at him.

He shrugs, an unapologetic smile curving his lips. “You made a face yesterday. I thought we’d experiment.”

Somehow, six tubes of toothpaste is enough to make this feel like home. Because Asher is still Asher, despite what GSD put him through. And that settles me most of all.

“I don’t know how to process this.” Touching each box, I absorb the texture, the contours, the names my mouth doesn’t quite want to form the shape of yet. “You. Anticipating what I need and…adjusting.”

He leans in, claims my lips in a way that tells me tonight isn’t going to end with us falling asleep on the couch, and I wind my arms around his waist.

“You’re not hard to adjust for, Raine. Anyone who told you otherwise should reexamine their life choices.” After a beat, he grins. “Or not. Because I plan on spending the rest of my days with you, and I’d hate to have to kill someone so soon after signing a lease. That seems…rude.”

I laugh, rest my cheek against his chest, and try not to think about how close I came to losing him.

We try two brands that night. One is immediately wrong. The other is…workable.

I line the rest up in the cabinet for another day. Options matter.

Later, we get in bed, backs against the headboard, books in hand, with the city still humming outside the window.

“So,” he says. “We’re here. With furniture. We can start arguing about paint colors any time.”

I glance around the room. The walls are a pale, sun-bleached cream that looked intentional in the online listing, but in person, reads as temporary. “We already have paint colors. Well…one paint color.”

“We have landlord-approved neutrality,” he says. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s efficient?” I won’t win this argument. I know it. But trying with him is…fun.

“It’s boring, and we did not survive everything they threw at us to spend the rest of our lives in a dentist’s waiting room.”

“That’s unfair to dentists.”

He tilts his head, one brow arching slightly. “Is it?”

I ignore him and pivot to a new tactic. “Paint requires ladders. Ladders lead to falling.”

“Only if you misuse them,” he counters. “And you told me you’ve jumped out of more than one perfectly good plane in your life. A ladder isn’t going to take you down. Or me, for that matter.”

I ignore him, and he studies me for a long moment, his expression shifting to quiet amusement as he realizes I’m completely serious and the conversation has wandered somewhere he didn’t anticipate.

“New proposal,” he says. “We focus on coffee mugs.”

I choke on my sip of water. “Coffee mugs?”

“Yes. When we were building our future from that thoroughly boring couch in Bellevue, you promised me ridiculous coffee mugs.”

“I did not promise ridiculous coffee mugs. I said coffee mugs.”

He folds his hands behind his head, deeply satisfied with himself. “Well, I saw a store on the way back from the market that appears to specialize in ceramics shaped like animals.”

I stare at him, shake my head, and pick up my book.

“This is the life you chose,” he teases.

“I chose you. Not a coffee mug shaped like a hippopotamus.” I peer at him over the cover of the book, knowing I’ll lose this particular argument too. I find I don’t care. He went through hell for me and came out the other side. If he wants a hippo mug, he can have one.

“And I come with strong opinions about mugs.” He shrugs. “Particularly that sloth-shaped coffee mugs are superior to all others.”

“You know… Most people ease their way into domestic arguments.” I set my book back down, climb on top of him, and press my lips to his.