It’s too quiet.
No traffic noise. No sirens. No distant hum of city life. Just crickets. The occasional hoot of an owl. The soft creak of old wood settling as the cabin exhales around us.
And underneath it all—like a bassline—Knight’s breathing from the other room.
I shouldn’t be able to hear it.
But I do.
Because I’m listening for it.
I roll onto my side and hug the pillow, pressing my cheek into it.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve had a crush on Knight Hayes for… what, a decade? Longer? I was fourteen the first time he came over to the house with Gage—quiet, tall, wearing an oversized hoodie and an expression like life had already kicked him in the teeth.
I remember the way he’d sit at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, watching whatever game Gage put on TV but not reallyseeingit. How he’d relax only when I joked with him or stole his fries or nudged his arm and demanded he help me hack a stupid online game.
Back then, he was a mystery with messy hair and an adorable dimple.
Now?
He’s a weapon.
Tightly coiled, controlled, lethal in a way that has nothing to do with biceps and everything to do with the way he steps between me and danger without thinking.
“Stop thinking about him,” I mutter into the pillow.
My brain:No.
I kick free of the blanket, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and sit there for a second, toes curling against the cool wood floor.
There’s a faint light coming from the other room. A soft golden glow under the bottom of the bedroom door, along with the murmur of a low voice and the rustle of fabric.
He’s still up.
Of course he is.
Knight doesn’t sleep when there’s work to do. Or when there’s something to worry over. Or when there’s a girl in the next room whose name rhymes withsharkand whose hobbies include blackmail and bat-violence.
I pad quietly to the door, crack it open, and peer out.
He’s on the couch.
Sort of.
He’s half-sitting, half-slumped, long legs taking up most of the cushions, one ankle hooked over the other. He’s in sweats and a t-shirt now, no hoodie, and there’s a blanket tossed haphazardly over his lap like he lost a war with it. His laptop is open on the coffee table, screen dark. The lamp beside him is on, dimmed low.
His head is tipped back, eyes closed, jaw shadowed with stubble. One forearm is draped over his eyes, the other resting along his stomach, hand curled loosely.
He looks… tired.
Not physically. I’ve seen him exhausted before, running on three hours of sleep and sheer spite.
This is different.
This is the kind of tired that comes from trying to hold the world together with duct tape and overclocked processors.
