Page 26 of Messy AF
Pulling into the driveway, I parked my SUV beside Tobi’s midnight-blue sedan, smiling at the glowing candy canes that illuminated the path to the front steps.
Alternating red and white bulbs hung from the eaves, their soft light reflecting in the hood of my car, and a small Christmas tree had replaced the rocking chair on the porch. The charming little cottage—our home—looked like it belonged on the front of a postcard.
And while I had done the heavy lifting, it had been Tobi’s creativity that had brought it to life.
Grabbing my backpack from the passenger seat, I slid a strap over one arm and hoisted it onto my shoulder as I climbed out of the car. I hated coming home so late, but I loved seeing the warm amber light filling the windows and knowing my mate had waited up for me.
Jogging up the porch steps, I smiled when the front door swung open and Tobi appeared at the threshold, a smile on his lips to welcome me back.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I echoed, before greeting him with a kiss, the mistletoe over the doorframe practically demanding it. “How was work?”
“Standard.” He stepped aside, waiting for me to enter the house before closing and locking the door behind us. “What about you? How was your shift?”
“Standard.” Kicking my boots off, I tucked them into one of the cubbies inside the entryway and dropped my bag onto the bench seat. “No one died.”
“Oh, that sounds better than standard.”
When I had first left MNSTR, I hadn’t been sure what I would do. I’d just known that it wouldn’t be practical or appropriate to keep accepting caretaker jobs now that I had Tobi. I had the option to switch my specialty, to take on other tasks, but frankly, nothing else had really appealed to me.
It had been Tobi who suggested I return to working as a paramedic. I hadn’t loved the idea at first, mostly because it kept me away from him for long stretches at a time. It wasn’t unusual for me to work twelve-hour shifts, like the one I had just finished.
Besides, the pay sucked.
I didn’t actually need the money, though, and I enjoyed helping people. As my mate had pointed out, what better way to help than by saving lives?
Except, not everyone could be saved, and those days hurt. It had been one of the main reasons I’d left the profession in the first place.
But back then, there hadn’t been a Tobi in my life. Now, I had someone waiting for me when I came home, someone to remind me that, even on the toughest days, it was still worth it.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
He started toward the kitchen, but I caught him by the wrist, tugging him back into my arms. “Starving.”
His laughter echoed through the house as he fell against me. “I meant for food.”
“Fine.” I sighed dramatically and released him, loving his answering giggle. “Let me just jump in the shower first.”
“Take your time.”
I lingered for a moment, watching him disappear behind the kitchen doorway. My neck ached from the day’s tension, but the warmth in his eyes was enough to loosen the knots inside me.
Rolling my shoulders, I padded down the hall, peeling off the uniform that felt twice as heavy as it should.
The spray of the shower was bliss, the steam curling around me as I closed my eyes and let the water wash away the memories of the past twelve hours. I found myself smiling, thinking about how it always eased something inside me to return to this house.
To Tobi and his love of rules.
To a home that always smelled faintly of lemon and sun-kissed laundry.
When I finally stepped out and wrapped a towel around my waist, I was greeted by the clatter of dishes and the low hum of a tune I only half recognized. Dressing quickly, I followed the sounds and smells, retracing my steps down the hallway and across the living room.
The kitchen light spilled out into the entryway, golden and inviting, and I hovered at the threshold for a second to watch my mate.
Tobi hummed while he shuffled around the stove, swaying absently to his own offbeat rhythm. He didn’t notice me at first, too absorbed in the simple choreography of his task.
Unobserved, I stood watching, committing the scene to memory—the mugs stacked haphazardly, the cutting board strewn with bright slivers of bell pepper, the sun-faded dish towel hanging from the handle of the oven.
