Blake was sentenced to five years without parole once New York got ahold of him.

It's not a lot of time. Definitely not as long as I'd like. But when news of the sentencing got back to us, Eric and I sat down and had a long talk about what we'd do if he ever came back. We're not going anywhere, that's for damn sure. We're saving up to buy a house of our own in Glen Springs, and Blake's not going to get in the way of that.

But we do need a plan, and we've decided that if he does come back, we're going to involve every law enforcement officer we can from the get-go. Trusting in the system is still a lot for me, but ever since Diego Cortez was finally convicted of his wife's murder—nearly two years after it happened—I've tried to have a little more faith.

We're keeping all our friends and family in the loop, too, and Eric trains with me regularly so we can both keep our martial skills sharp. Partially to prepare, and partially because—let's be honest—there are worse ways to spend an afternoon.

It's not something we let rule our lives, though. We both think about Blake from time to time, sure. I still think about Maria, too. But I don't think either of us are haunted anymore, and the thoughts we do have are a lot more productive. Mostly, we're turning our experiences into something positive.

Today, Eric and I are running a food truck near the UK campus in Lexington. There's a big event going on to raise awareness and money for a shelter that specifically takes in victims of domestic abuse and helps them get back on their feet. We decided we wanted to contribute months ago, but it was Gracie who had the idea to rent a truck and sell some of Eric's best dishes, including his famous—and fucking amazing—hot brown sandwich.

"Got another hot brown," Gracie calls from the window, "and a cheeseburger, medium. Both with fries."

Because I'm still barely competent in the kitchen, I'm mostly here for moral support. And to handle the fries, which has been a full-time job all day. Eric par-cooked a huge batch the night before, but I still have to dunk them twice, then season then with a blend of salt, onion powder, and just a little bit of sugar. I put in another two orders and get the baskets ready while Eric makes the sandwiches.

As soon as that order goes out, another one comes in, and we don't actually get a chance to even stop and breathe until Eric actually runs out of his burger mix. He isn't all that happy about it, but he sends Gracie to get some ground beef from the nearest supermarket and we close up the window for a little bit.

"I hate that anyone who comes later is getting an inferior burger," he grumbles, wiping down the counter.

"I know. But I'm pretty sure most people won't be able to tell the difference."

His nose scrunches at that and I laugh, looping an arm about his waist and pulling him to me. If we were anywhere else, I might move my hand a little lower and pull his body flush against mine. But we're still in a public space, and his mom won't be gone all that long, so I behave myself.

"I'll be able to tell the difference. And so would you," he says, poking me in the chest. "Don't tell me you've gone back to thinking ground chuck tastes the same as what I make."

I grin at that, thinking about teasing him for half a second. My palate's still not all that refined, but Eric put in a hell of a lot of work to make sure I knew what fresh-ground beef actually tastes like. Blind taste test and everything.

"I've learned the error of my heathen ways," I tell him, leaning down to brush my lips over his. "If it really bothers you, charge less for these ones."

"Oh, I plan to."

We spend a little more time together, just standing there chest to chest, enjoying the brief moment of quiet. After another few kisses, Eric gets restless and goes out to change the menu board, and I take to cleaning while we wait for Gracie to get back.

* * *

The traffic we get later that afternoon is just as crazy, and I'm almost positive not a single person who bought a burger had even a tiny complaint. Everybody's been coming back to give us compliments, dropping huge tips in the jar—all of which are going to the shelter—and letting Eric know they're leaving a five-star review on Yelp.

Around mid-evening, a woman comes up to the truck looking for Eric. I've never seen her before, but his eyes light up and he takes a five-minute break, hopping out of the truck to go speak with her.

Gracie just gives me a shrug, apparently having no idea who she is, either. But after a few minutes, the back of the truck opens again and Eric's standing there, a broad grin on his face.

"Hey babe, could you come down here a minute? There's someone I want you to meet."

I wipe my hands on a dish towel, strip off my apron, and jump down from the truck. Eric's standing there with a middle-aged woman who smiles at me, extending her hand.

"Mr. Barnett. I'm Rebecca Weiss. I'm one of the directors of the Safe Harbor Center."

"Oh," I say, taking her hand and giving it a shake. "Hey, it's good to meet you. You're doing great work."

"Thank you," she says, her voice soft but the sentiment genuine. "We hope to do a lot more of it with the money raised today. In fact, we're looking to expand a few of the programs we offer at the center."

Eric told me when he first read about this event that the Safe Harbor Center is more than just a shelter. It provides abuse victims with counseling and skills training so they can live a life independent of their partner. He’s even signed up for counseling himself, to help deal with some of those lingering doubts Blake left behind.

"That's awesome," I say with a smile.

"Eric tells me you're a gifted self-defense instructor."

I glance at Eric, trying not to let my surprise show too much. He and I talked about this a while ago, after I started taking fewer and fewer shifts at the hospital and decided to teach some classes at the gym.

Being a cop again, it's not for me. But actively teaching people to defend themselves? Giving them the tools they need to get out of dangerous situations? That speaks to me, and I've really enjoyed my work there.

"I don't know about gifted," I say. "I just try to pass along what I've learned."

"Well, how would you feel about passing it along at the Center?"

My eyes widen, and for a long moment I just stare at her. Is she offering me a job? I look at Eric, and the excitement that sparks in his eyes is contagious. It surges through me, waking up every hope and dream I’ve kept on a tight leash until now.

"I'd be honored," I say. "When do I start?"

Rebecca and I talk a little more about my role there as Eric jumps back inside the truck to take care of the crowd that's gathered. She gives me a ton of information and before she leaves, we set up a meeting so I can see the Center in person and make a final decision.

But I already know what I'm going to decide. Lending my skills to a place that actively helps people get out of impossible situations seems like the perfect fit.

And Eric knew that.

Once Rebecca leaves, I step back into the truck pull Eric into a bear hug. He yelps, dropping his spatula. But after a moment of surprise, he laughs and loops his arms about my neck, meeting me for a kiss.

"Can't believe you did that," I murmur, though I definitely can. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says, kissing me softly. "I'm not all that eager to share you, but you're going to be amazing for the Center, so… I think I'll live."

It's something I've been looking for my whole life—the ability to help people without having to deal with all the red tape. Eric gets that more than anyone else I've ever met, and the fact that he cares enough to line this up for me is just one of a thousand reasons why I love him.

Another reason comes in the form of the wicked gleam he gives me, his lips curving into a devilish smile. If we were alone, I'd know exactly what that expression meant.

Here, though, he keeps it tame. Mostly.

One of his hands trail down to my ass as he says, "You're still on fry duty, though," before giving me a playful smack.

And if that's the cost of sharing a life with him, I'm more than willing to pay it.

“Deal.”