“Sit,” she instructs me, and I drop down on the low crate I was using as a seat.

I expect her to grab the greasy stool, but she ignores it to come stand in front of me. I have to look up at her from this angle, and my eyes are level with the destructive handprints.

“I can’t believe … your dress.” I mourn the loss.

Laundry isn’t one of my skill sets. I’m usually just proud of myself when I separate lights and darks, but I still know that grease and white clothing don’t mix. It’s a shame, no matter how good the shape of my hands look, clasping her chest.

“Don’t worry about it. I got it from a thrift shop, and I think it shrank last time I washed it. Half the buttons are ready to pop off.”

Now that she mentions it, I do notice how the material strains more where it covers her chest.

The sight makes me want to moan for a whole other reason.

“Warner?” A cool finger hooks under my chin, tilting my head up until I meet her warm brown eyes. “Werewolves?”

No selective amnesia then.

I clear my throat. “Yep. Werewolves.”

She grins down at me, the expression sheepish and beautiful enough to make my heart hammer loud in my ears.

“I’m sorry I went robot on you.”

“Robot?” I hesitantly return her grin.

“Yeah. I had some misguided autopilot setting to think stabbing myself was a good idea.”

The reminder of Zoey holding that knife, covered in her own blood, has the happy emotions in my chest fizzling out. My eyes flick to her arm, where the stitches are visible. At least I’m not picking up any scent of infection.

Yeah, werewolves can smell that.

“You were scared.”

“I short-circuited. A robot that lost its batteries. Completely shut down. You were scared, and I’m sorry.”

Her fingers play with the hair that curls on my forehead. The movement is so soothing that I almost lose my train of thought. But I catch hold of it.

“You’re apologizing to me?”

How could she think there’s anything she needs to say sorry for? I’m the one who fucked up.

“Yes, and I brought you an apology gift.”

“Zoey, stop. You don’t …”

But just like the night I met her, she ignores me as she rummages through her bag. And once again, she pulls out some kind of crochet creation.

“It’s a scarf.” She leans forward, laying the item around my neck.

As far as scarves go, it’s not the best. The ends barely fall past my shoulders, and one side still has a crochet hook stuck in it.

Not that I care.

“I love it.”