The apartment is dark except for the kitchen, where Robin's left a light on over the stove. There's a note on the counter in his precise handwriting:Cake in fridge. Water and advil on your nightstand. Your phone charger is plugged in by your bed. Love you, please don't die.
Robin. Who stayed up late worrying, who stress-baked a whole cake, who left me painkillers and water because he knows I always forget to hydrate. Who's been taking care of me since freshman year of college when I was a scared kid who didn't know how to talk to people.
Knox asked about him. Twice. Something about the way he saidRobinfelt weighted, significant.
I'm too tired to think about what that means.
My room is exactly as I left it—messy desk, overflowing bookshelf, unmade bed that looks like the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I plug in my phone, kick off my shoes, and collapse face-first onto the mattress without bothering to change.
My clothes smell like the bar. Like leather and rain and french fries and that wild, animal scent that must be Knox. When I breathe in, I can almost feel the vibration of the motorcycle, the warmth of his back against my chest, the steadiness of his hands on my wrists.
Your eyes are pretty when they're gold.
God. I actually said that. Out loud. To his face.
I groan into my pillow, mortification and exhaustion battling for dominance.
Three hours. I have three hours before I have to be functional again.
I'm asleep before I finish the thought, dreaming of golden eyes and the rumble of an engine.
Chapter 4
Knox
The wrench slips for the third time in ten minutes.
I growl at it, which doesn't help but makes me feel marginally better. The bike I'm working on doesn't need fixing—it's a routine tune-up at best—but I needed something to do with my hands. Something to focus on that isn't the memory of warm brown eyes blinking up at me through rain-spotted glasses.
Your eyes are pretty when they're gold.
I tighten my grip on the wrench and try again. The bolt turns smoothly this time, but I barely notice. I keep thinking about the way he looked wrapped in my blanket. The way he smelled—rain and exhaustion and that warm-sweet undertone that's been stuck in my head for hours. The way he justacceptedus, like finding out he'd stumbled into a den of lion shifters was mildly inconvenient rather than terrifying.
The way he felt pressed against my back on the ride home, arms tight around my waist, thighs bracketing my hips. The way he swayed on the sidewalk outside his building, half-asleep and mumbling about drag queens and rainbow cupcakes.
The way he saidpretty.
"—and did you see his hands?"
Jason's voice cuts through my thoughts. I don't know how long he's been talking. Could be seconds, could be an hour.
"He had ink on his fingers. From actual pens. When's the last time you saw someone with ink stains? That's so cute. He probably writes notes in the margins of books. Little annotations. Thoughts. Maybe he underlines his favorite passages—"
"Jason." I don't look up from the engine. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying, he was really pretty. Even soaking wet. Actually, especially soaking wet." Jason is lounging against theworkbench like he doesn't have a care in the world, long legs crossed at the ankle, completely unbothered by the warning in my voice. "His shirt was kind of see-through under that cardigan. Did you notice? Very nice chest. Compact but—"
The wrench goes flying before I consciously decide to throw it. It clangs against the wall hard enough to leave a dent in the drywall.
Jason doesn't even flinch.
"Did you notice his neck?" he continues, as if I hadn't just hurled a metal object in his general direction. "When he took off his glasses to clean them? He has this really elegant throat. Long. Pale. Bet it would look amazing with—"
"Jason."
"What? I'm just observing. Objectively." He examines his fingernails with theatrical casualness. "He has that librarian thing going on, you know? Buttoned up and proper on the outside, but you just know there's something else underneath. Like, I bet under those awful khakis he was wearing, he's got—"
"If you finish that sentence, I'm putting you on inventory for a month."
