“Toothpaste is toothpaste,” she replied, her voice husky. “It’s just sweet you remembered.”

At least he gave her that.

Though, from the look on her face, it seemed, for her, it was a fuckuva lot more than toothpaste.

“Danny, I don’t know how I can thank—” she began.

“Stop, baby,” he murmured. “Anyone would do what I did when they walked up to you with your apartment like that.”

“Not anyone.”

That was definitely her experience.

“You’re a good guy and now I feel like an even bigger bitch I was so ugly to you last night,” she whispered.

“We’re beyond that,” he reminded her.

“Okay,” she said unconvincingly.

“Try to get some sleep,” he urged.

“Okay,” she repeated.

“If you can’t, my room’s right over there.” He pointed to the door in the unit opposite hers, across the kitchen. “Knock, honey. I’ll get up, we’ll chat, watch some late-night movies, whatever.”

“Okay,” she said again, though he knew she wouldn’t disturb him just like he knew she probably wouldn’t get any sleep. “Thanks again, Danny.”

“Don’t mention it, Evie. Rest well.”

“You too.”

Slowly, she slid out of the door, closing it behind her.

Mag stood staring at it, the feelings boiling inside him again.

He’d developed coping mechanisms to handle his temper.

Talking to Mo, Auggie, Boone, Axl, some of them or all of them.

Working out.

Finding someone to fuck.

And last recourse, getting drunk, though sometimes that could bite him in the ass.

He could call any of his friends and they’d talk or come over and listen.

Mag didn’t do that.

It might tweak Evie.

Not to mention, at this juncture, with her life a mess, she didn’t need to learn he was all kinds of fucked up.

So instead, he turned off the kitchen light, walked to his room and went to bed.

Mag woke because he smelled bacon.

He stared at his pillow, then he threw back the covers, angled out of bed, walked to his door and pulled it open.

Yeah.

Fuck him.

That was what he’d hoped to see.

Evie, in his tee, in his kitchen, cooking breakfast.

If she didn’t want him to see her legs, she’d be in her clothes.

She wanted him to see her legs, her in his tee, and all that communicated.

Thank Christ, today was starting a helluva lot better than yesterday.

She was standing at the stove.

She turned at the sound of his door opening, her mouth moving like she was about to say something, but when she clapped eyes on him, she went completely still, her gaze glued to his chest.

Mag slept in loose shorts.

He worked at his body because he liked doing it.

He did it because it helped him keep his emotions in check.

And he did it because it was a requirement of his job.

But right then, he was fucking glad he did.

“Mornin’, Evie,” he said, moving out of his room.

She blinked rapidly, her eyes shifting down to his abs, lower, then skimming quickly up.

He never would have imagined he’d wake up the morning after last night (and the one before) and walk out to his kitchen grinning.

But that was what he did.

He buried the grin, leaned a hip against the counter of the island, crossed his arms on his chest, which made her drop her eyes to it again before they speeded back up to his face, and he caught his lip twitch before he asked, “You manage to get any sleep?”

“A couple of hours,” she replied.

“Good,” he muttered.

“I, uh…thought I’d start my thank-you process by making you breakfast,” she told him.

He quirked his brows. “Your thank-you process?”

“It has multiple layers. Or it will. I haven’t decided what those are going to be yet. But,” she indicated the frying pan with her fork, “it starts with breakfast.”

He smiled at her. “Baby, you don’t have anything to thank me for.”

At least, not yet.

“On that, we disagree,” she mumbled, turning back to the pan. “It’s good you’re up, how do you like your eggs?”

“However you make them.”

She looked at him again. “What’s your favorite way?”

“Eggs are eggs, babe. Whatever way you wanna make ’em, I’ll like.”

She was going to say something, but toast popped up and that took her attention.

So he said, “Gonna go brush my teeth. Then I’ll be back, and I’ll help you finish breakfast.”

Her attention returned to him, but he pivoted, walked to his room and through it to the bathroom. He used it, washed his hands, did the brush thing, the floss thing, splashed water on his face and pulled his wet fingers through his hair.

And he absolutely did not tug on a tee on his way back to the kitchen.

She had plates down, a stack of toast started, bacon resting on a paper towel by the stove and was scrambling some eggs when he returned.

“Just sit down, Mag, and let me serve you. If you help, it won’t be a thank-you,” she ordered, not glancing his way.

But…

Mag?

She had not once called him Mag, unless it was right after he told her to do that, but then she went right back to Danny.

Seemed in those hours she didn’t sleep she’d made some decisions about how she was going to move forward on some things.

Though not all the right decisions.

Making breakfast in his tee, correct.

Calling him Mag, incorrect.

He saw the coffeepot was full, so instead of heading to a stool at the island, he moved that way.

Which was closer to her.

“Just gonna get a cup of joe,” he told her.

“I can get it for you,” she offered quickly, turning his way. “How do you take it?”

Fortunately, he’d gotten close by the time she turned his way so he could get up in her space.

Something he did.

Her eyes got wide, then they dropped to his chest, grew lazy, he grinned, and they shot back up to his face.

“Mag, I—” she began.

“Danny,” he muttered, looking at her mouth.

Her head ticked, and she said, “But I thought you liked to be called—”

She again didn’t finish, seeing as he lifted a hand, slid his fingers along the side of her neck and up into her hair behind her ear.

Yeah, that hair was as soft as it looked.

“Didn’t sleep much either, worried about you and if you were getting any rest,” he told her.

“Well, I…that sucks. I’m sorry. I—”

She stopped talking when he slid the tips of his fingers through her hair and down the line of the back of her neck.

“I gotta work today, but you can stay here,” he said. “I’ll talk to Mo. They got a security system at their pad. Mac danced last night, so she’s probably asleep, but when she gets up, you can hang with her. Around lunch, I’ll come and get you and take you over to their place.”

“Mag—”

“Danny,” he corrected, running his fingers under her ear, feeling her shiver, fighting another grin, then he stroked her throat with his forefinger and kept talking. “When I get off work tonight, I’ll come get you and we’ll pop in at the police station. Make a quick statement. Give them what we got to help them do their jobs.”