I trudge into my house with my bottle of pain pills, and my cat comes to greet me. He's a fat orange boy named Ulysses and the greatest love of my life. I bend over with a groan and scratch under his chin as he brushes against my leg.

"Hi, sweet boy."

He purrs and follows me into the kitchen. I put my gun and badge on the counter before grabbing a Coke from the fridge. I grab some treats for Ulysses and give him a few more scratches before going into my living room and lying down on the couch. I pop a pain pill and just breathe.

Man, today fucking sucked.

I turn the TV on, and then doze off for a few hours. I wake up to a knock on my door and check the time—only six-thirty. The guys won't be here for poker night for another hour, so it's not them. I make my way to the door and find Cullen on the other side.

"I thought doctors didn't make house calls anymore?" I ask, and he chuckles.

"I'm being a good neighbor. Are you okay?"

I nod. "Yeah, but your narcotics knocked me the fuck out."

"They tend to do that. I'm sure today was scary, so I figured you might need to talk about it."

I lean against the doorframe, shaking my head. "It wasn't that big of a deal, but … thanks. I'm fine really. I need to start dinner for the guys."

He nods, smiling. "Ah, poker night. Jasper invited me today when he came in on a call and found out I was off for once."

"Did you tell him about the bat to my ribs?"

"No, HIPAA kind of keeps me from discussing patients. You haven't told him? He's going to freak out on you."

I motion for him to come inside and roll my eyes. "Yeah, that's why I haven't told him yet. If you're coming to poker, you might as well help me set up. Are you sure you wouldn't rather pick up another twenty-three-year-old?"

I can admit that Edward is incredibly good looking. His jaw looks like it was chiseled by Michaelangelo himself, and he takes very good care of his body. He mows without a shirt, so I've seen his perfect chest and abs first hand. He brings a girl home most nights he's off work, and it's like a parade of models some mornings.

He uses them, and then makes them do the walk of shame.

But that's not the only reason I think he's an asshole. He's cocky as hell and thinks he can bake better than me—though he's yet to prove it.

"My dates aren't twenty-three."

I cock my brow. "Twenty-four?"

He smirks. "Maybe one or two, but my dating life is not really any of your business."

"Fair enough. The poker stuff is in this cabinet." I touch a door on the kitchen island, and he nods. "If you'd set it up, I'd appreciate it. I've got to throw some pizzas in the oven."

"Sure thing. You know, this is the first time I've been in your house."

"Because we're not friends."

"We could be. You hate me for no reason."

"Um, I've got my reasons," I say, grabbing the two frozen pizzas from my freezer. "For instance, the contest. You're never going to beat me."

"This could be my year. I've really stepped up my game with a new blueberry pie."

"It won't beat mine."

"It might."

I roll my eyes. "In your dreams, pal. So, how's Jane doing?"

He nods. "A surgeon set her arm, and we're keeping her for a few days. Is the husband going to be out any time soon?"

I shrug. "There's always bail, but there's a restraining order in place, so he can't go home. Hopefully, she finally leaves his ass."

"Yeah, next time could be too late. I hate these cases."

I nod. "Me too." I sigh. "Me fucking too."

I don't own Twilight.

Thanks to Ashley, May, and Mary prereading and Sally for beta'ing.