"I did it because the thought of anyone disrespecting you makes me insane," I admitted.
"That's the problem! You're out of control!" she said.
"Only when it comes to you," I replied softly.
Silence. Then the lock clicked.
She opened the door, and my chest tightened. She'd been crying. Her eyes were red, puffy, and she was wearing my t-shirt from last night.
"You're hurt," she said quietly, looking at my hand.
"It's nothing," I dismissed.
"It's broken," she corrected.
"Harper..." I started.
"Come in. Let me look at it," she said, stepping aside.
I followed her inside. She got the medical kit from her bag, all professional despite wearing my shirt and nothing else. Her hands were gentle as she examined mine, checking each knuckle, assessing the damage.
"Second and third metacarpals are fractured. You need an X-ray," she diagnosed.
"Later," I said.
"Knox..." she sighed.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She laughed, short and bitter. "Am I okay? My career is over, the entire league thinks I'm your whore, and you just committed felony assault on live TV. No, I'm not okay."
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
"For which part?" she asked.
"For hurting you. Never for protecting you," I clarified.
"This wasn't protection. This was possession," she said.
"Same thing when it comes to you," I replied.
She looked up at me, and the tears started again. "They fired me. Richards called. Said to clean out my office when we get back."
Something broke in my chest. "Harper..." I breathed.
"Don't. Just don't," she said, going back to wrapping my hand. "You got what you wanted. I'm yours now. Only yours. Because no one else will hire me."
"We'll figure it out," I insisted.
"There's no 'we'll figure it out!' This is my life, Knox!" she cried.
"And you're mine!" I shot back.
The words hung between us, too heavy, too real.
"That's not enough," she whispered.
"It has to be," I said desperately.
