“Bummer. In that case, I’ll just . . .” I hear the shuffling of paper bags and realize he may need help. I swing the door open to find my boyfriend standing at my threshold with an unholy number of tinfoil-wrapped dishes. He is still in his scrubs, looking tired and gorgeous and all mine. My heart swells.

“Surprise.” He leans to kiss me. “I brought food and my horny self. Let’s get this party started.”

“Dom, this could feed an army.” I grab two of the dishes as I usher him inside. That’s when he drops everything on the floor. He reaches for my waist. I think he’s going to pull me to him and kiss me, but then he carefully slips out the knife I shoved into my sweatpants and holds it between us.

“Babe.” His shoulders are shaking with laughter. “Your mind works in mysterious, disturbing ways.”

“I wasn’t expecting company!” I give him a light shove.

“Who’s running from the Feds now, huh?”

“Not me.” I grab the knife and toss it into the kitchen sink. “You’d have to be next-level dumb to attack federal agents with a butter knife.”

We tuck into the food—roast turkey, green bean casserole, candied yams, and mashed potatoes. Local restaurants dropped off some; other food was brought over by patients’ relatives. The gravy is flawless and the stuffing is celestial. We crack open a bottle of cheap wine and drink it from plastic cups, the ones that squish unless you hold them extra carefully.

When we’re both in a state of a food coma, we drag ourselves to the couch and continue watching RuPaul. I’m pleasantly surprised when Dom tells me he actually watches it every now and then. I guess we do have one thing in common.

“This is nice,” I say.

“Of course.” He hooks an arm around my shoulder, pulls me close, and kisses my head. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because I’m not used to being happy. To celebrating holidays. To . . .”

“Living?” he finishes for me softly. “It’s okay, Lynne. I’m here to teach you. And I have all the time in the world.”

No one has all the time in the world, I think.

When Dom gets comfortable on the couch, I warn him that it is deeply contaminated with Colt’s and Nora’s bodily fluids.

“That’s nasty,” Dom says, lowering me against the cushions and kissing a path down my neck. “That all the memories on this sofa belong to Nora and Colt. How about we make new ones?” he suggests, pulling down my sweatpants, his grin lopsided, drowsy-eyed, and absolutely beautiful.

“Please. I have the belly of a six-month-pregnant woman.” I pat said stomach.

“So do I.” He does the same, his palm against his flat abs.