I should've known that motherfucker would be stupid enough to pull a gun, but the flash of metal still surprises the hell out of me.

At first, my brain doesn't really comprehend what it is or what's going on. I'm fully in the "fight" half of my fight-or-flight response, ready to knock this guy out cold for putting a hand on Eric. I hear the bang and it's so loud, my ears start to ring and then I don't hear much of anything else. That's when I feel the force of it, like a two-ton fist punching me square in the shoulder.

All of that must happen in mere seconds, but each piece of it stretches out before me, and it isn't until I can feel the warm rush of my blood soaking through my shirt that I realize I've been shot.

It's an obvious hazard when you're a cop, but the closest I ever came to truly getting shot was during a call my partner and I answered to check in on an area that was notoriously rough. The guy who owned the house fired a warning shot that sailed over my head, and I remember feeling that weird, adrenaline-induced slowdown then, too.

Only that time, it was easy for me to disarm the shooter and tackle him to the ground. Here, I try with every shred of strength left in my body to do just that, fire and fury fueling my actions in an attempt to keep Eric safe. But it's just not enough. I can't force my muscles to work, and I drop to the ground, slumping against the stove.

I fight to keep my eyes open, and I hear the gun clatter to the floor. Eric must’ve disarmed him. When Blake comes crashing to the tiles moments later, I try to laugh—though I think it comes out as a cough—and I've got no problem watching the show as Eric uses what I taught him and pins Blake, choking him out until he's unconscious.

I want to tell him how fucking amazing he did, to grin with him at the sweet justice that he was the one to knock Blake on his ass, but I can't seem to summon the energy to do much of anything. Even when Eric comes over to me, panic and worry in his eyes, it's a huge effort just to hold my own head up to look at him.

There's so much I want to say, so much I want to do. And as darkness slips into the edges of my vision, all I can think is how pissed off I am that I haven't gotten the chance to tell him how I feel.

* * *

The next time I open my eyes, my vision is filled by a blinding white light.

Not the white lights of heaven or a funeral home or anything as drastic as all of that. Even though I'm out of it, I can recognize high-wattage fluorescent bulbs when I have the misfortune of seeing them. A constant beeping fills my ears and the smell of antiseptic assaults my nose, making it damn clear I'm in a hospital.

Basically, it all feels like any other work night. Aside from the fact that my throat is raw and scratchy and every muscle in my body aches like I've been run over by a bulldozer.

Something tightens around my left arm. Slowly at first, then with more force. I grunt when I realize it's a blood-pressure cuff. And that feeling of something attached to me is an IV. And—of course—the draft that's shrinking my balls right now is because I'm wearing a thin hospital gown.

Not just a normal work night, then, and it doesn't take long after that for the memories of what happened to come flooding back. My first priority—my only priority—is to make sure Eric's okay, and I scan the room for him, frantic.

That rising panic calms when I see him curled up in a chair near my bedside. His knees are drawn up into the seat and his chin's resting on top of them. He looks oddly comfortable like that, all bundled in a hospital blanket, and I smile.

The curtain opens, and I see Gracie slip into my little space with a cup of coffee. Sounds damn good right now, though I know it'd be hell on my throat.

"Hey, you're awake," she says softly, a smile curving her lips. "How you feeling?"

She sets down her coffee cup and approaches my bedside, concern and care in her eyes. Reaching up, she brushes a few wayward strands of hair from my face, stroking my forehead with her thumb in a gesture that's way more comforting than it should be. It's a motherly gesture, and something I haven't really experienced since I was a kid. That sharp pang in my chest tells me I'd be better off experiencing it a little more often.

"Never better," I croak out after a few attempts.

She grins and pours me some water from a plastic pitcher. It's room temperature at best, and definitely tap water, but right now it's the best damn thing I've ever tasted.

"He okay?" I ask, my gaze moving to Eric.

His shoulders still rise and fall softly with the strength of his steady breathing.

"He was worried about you. They kept you in surgery for a long time to stop all the bleeding. But once he saw you open your eyes in recovery, I think he crashed hard."

I don't even remember that. I must've been out of it. Either that or it had the same effect for me: I saw that he was okay and then passed the fuck out.

The sound of snoring fills my ears and I look over at Eric. It's not coming from him, though.

"For all everybody was carrying on about how important you are to this hospital, you would think they could've sprung for a private room," Gracie grouses.

Of course. I must be at Hamilton County Hospital. The idea of it is just fucking hilarious to me, and I laugh. Again, it mostly comes out as a cough, morphing into something louder than I wanted.

Eric stirs, and as much as I didn't want to wake him up, I can't feel anything other than relief when his bright blue eyes meet mine.

"About time you woke up," he says, his own voice rough with much-needed sleep.

Gracie steps back from my bedside and picks up her coffee cup. "I think I heard something about them serving breakfast in the cafeteria. I'll volunteer to be the brave soul who sees whether or not it's edible."

"It's not," I tell her.

She scoffs at this and reaches for her cane with her free hand. Turning back to me, she smirks. "I'll let you off for a week, maybe two. But as soon as you're feeling better, I expect you at Tuesday dinner."

I spent so much time worrying about the past and the present that I didn't really think about anything after. Being a permanent part of Eric's life, having a weekly spot at his dinner table… it makes everything we've gone through worth it.

So long as we’re actually able to move forward.

"Blake?" I ask, not trusting myself to manage more than a few words at a time.

Eric comes to my bedside and reaches for my hand, holding it in both of his, fingers running over my skin as if testing to make sure I'm really here.

"The sheriff's deputy picked him up. They're holding him in the county jail until he can be transferred." He frowns, still stroking my hand. "They'll probably want to ask you some questions."

"Long as it's over with," I say, looking up at him with a smile.

One of his hands lifts to my face, and I lean into the warmth of his caress, closing my eyes briefly. When I open them again, I can see Eric's are shimmering with unshed tears.

"Hey. I'm okay." I try to reach for his hand with my other one, but the blood pressure cuff stops me.

"When that gun went off…"

His voice trembles, and he doesn't have to complete that sentence. I can see how scared he was. Probably as scared as I was when Blake lunged at him. If anything happened to him, I don't know what I'd do.

But he's here. He's safe and whole and smiling at me. And weirdly enough, the more I look up at him, the more it looks like his lips start to pull into a smirk.

"I thought I told you not to do anything stupid," he says.

I snort at that, instantly regretting it as pain lances through my torso. "I followed the plan. How was I supposed to know he had a gun?"

We both know I would've done the same damn thing even if I'd seen him come in with it, though. Hell, I wouldn't have let him get a single word out if I'd seen it.

It's not hard to imagine this situation going differently, though. Blake could've pulled the trigger on Eric instead of me. Maybe that was the plan all along if Eric didn't agree to go with him. Or he could've aimed a little more to the left, and then I might not be here at all.

I remember that last thought I had before slipping into unconsciousness. That strong, almost desperate desire to tell him how I feel.

Maybe there was a time I would've been self-conscious about it. We've only been together for a few weeks, and I guess I should feel a certain amount of doubt over that. But right now all I feel is an overwhelming need for the man in front of me, and a desire to tell him about it.

"I would've done whatever it took," I say, fighting against the scratchiness in my throat. "You're worth it. Before I got to know you, I was drinking myself to sleep every night, just going through the motions. Now I wake up looking forward to every day, all because I get to see you."

His smile softens, his thumb stroking over my cheek. I half expect him to say something, but he lets me finish. Good thing, too, because I'm not sure I have much longer before my voice just decides not to work.

"I love you, Eric, and I want to be a part of your life in whatever way you'll let me. If you need time or you want to take things slow after this, that's fine. But I need you to know that as long as you want me, I'm not going anywhere. I—"

I'm not able to finish that thought before his mouth covers mine. The kiss is sweet at first, his lips curving into a smile. But soon there's more force behind it, more direction, that sensual caress making my heart thump in double time.

He draws back, resting his forehead against mine. Tears streak his cheeks, but he's still smiling. "You did take a bullet for me, so I guess I can keep you around."

I laugh at that, ignoring the pain. Eric kisses me again, and the look he gives me as he pulls back is a look worth living for. Fierce, unwavering adoration that I can feel before he ever says the words.

"I love you, too. And you'd better not be going anywhere, because Mom will kick your ass if you don't show up for Tuesday dinner. She already warned you once."

I grin at that, a warmth filling my whole body as I think of all the Tuesdays to come. All the nights I'll get to spend with Eric by my side. All the mornings I'll get to wake up and see his face.

It's worth it. Everything we've fought through, and all the trials I'm sure are still ahead, it's worth it.

"As long as I don't have to cook," I say.

"Deal.” He grins and leans down for one more kiss.