I stop fighting my inner demons. We're on the same side now. T-shirt

My real mom died when I was born—hemorrhaged to death while giving birth to
me, which has never been one of my favorite memories—and Dad married Denise before I’d turned a year. Without even asking my opinion on the
matter. Denise and I never really clicked.

I wasn't loved. I was just a dumping ground for her demons to rest in my heart to if it was their grave.

Ambulances were cool. “You just want to fondle my extraneous body parts,” I said to the EMT as I picked up a silver gadget that looked disturbingly like an alien orifice probe, broke it, then promptly put it back, hoping it wouldn’t leave someone’s life hanging in the balance because the EMT couldn’t alien-probe his orifices.

The next thing I remembered was Reyes smiling down at me as the sun filtered into his apartment, his hair mussed, his lids hooded with the thick remnants of sleep. I stretched as those three little words that every girl longs to hear slipped from his mouth with effortless ease. As though they did every day. As though they didn't mean the world to me.

With one corner of his mouth tipping sensually, he asked, "Want some coffee?"

And I fell.

I fell hard.

He had given me so much information, I wanted some time to absorb it all, but I didn't want to leave him. Not like this. Not ever, as long as I lived. Or until I had to get back on the case. Whichever came first.