His mouth twitches.
“Yeah, I said it,” he murmurs. “I’m not… good at it yet. Saying it. But I’m practicing.”
My heart goes crazy.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
He turns toward me fully now, one knee bent, our legs pressed together. The firelight makes his eyes look molten.
“Lark Dawson,” he says, voice low and sure, “I love you. Not because of this cabin. Not because of the bounty. Not because you weaseled your way into my missions with blackmail and snacks. I love you because you’re you. Smart and loud and stubborn and brave.”
He reaches up, fingers curling around the back of my neck, thumb brushing just under my jaw.
“I love that you argue with me,” he goes on. “That you push me. That you see things I miss and call me on my bullshit. I love that you make everything louder, even the parts that scare me. And I want…” He swallows. “I want all of that in my real life too. Not just in temporary crisis mode.”
Tears sting behind my eyes so fast it’s embarrassing. “You’re not allowed to make me cry in a murder cabin,” I warn, voice thick.
He smiles, soft and crooked. “Too late,” he whispers.
I set my mug aside before I drop it and lean into him, pressing my forehead to his. “You know Gage is going to have an aneurysm,” I say, because if I don’t joke I’m going to sob.
“Oh, Gage is going to absolutely lose his shit,” Knight says, no hesitation. “He’s going to do the big brother posture, threaten to break my nose, ask me what my intentions are like we’re in a Victorian novel.”
“Probably labeled with spreadsheets,” I mutter.
“Definitely,” Knight agrees.
He slips his hand under the blanket, finding my waist, fingers splaying over the thin cotton of my shirt.
“But here’s the thing,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t get a vote. Not really. He gets an opinion. He gets input. But you’re not his to give away. You’re not a side quest in his game. You’re your own—and if you want me in your future, I’m there. No matter how loudly he yells about it.”
“Even if it makes things weird?” I ask. “At home? With all of us?”
He huffs a soft, humorless laugh.
“Things have been weird for a long time, Birdie,” he says. “Me trying not to look at you for too long so he wouldn’t notice. You tiptoeing around. Him pretending he didn’t see any of it. That’s already weird. This—” his thumb strokes my side, tender “—is honest. I’d rather deal with honest weird than keep lying to all three of us.”
I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to hear that until now.
Something inside me loosens.
“I want that too,” I say. “The honest kind. The… waking up in the same bed and getting coffee and arguing over whose turn it is to do dishes kind. Real life. With you.”
He smiles. Not his usual smirk. Something softer, almost shy.
“You’re going to hate living with me,” he warns. “I leave charging cables everywhere and forget laundry exists until it becomes a structural problem.”
“We’ll manage,” I tell him.
I turn to face him completely, drawing my knees up, the blanket sliding a little. His gaze drops, then snaps back up, heat flaring in his eyes.
“Hey, Knight?” I say.
“Yeah?”
“You get that we’re, like,disgustinglyin it now, right?” I ask. “Like, beyond ‘I like you’ weird. We’re at ‘I picked out future coffee fights’ level.”
He laughs, low and real. “Yeah,” he says. “Trust me, I’m painfully aware.”
