I look at Toby again. At the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the way his fingers curl slightly against the pillow. He looks thoroughly fucked out. Debauched. Claimed.
Perfect.
Gross. Happy for you. Don't forget we have that parts shipment coming early today.
I know.
Also Vaughn says you owe him $200.
For what?
He bet you'd have him staying over before the weekend. Ezra had next Tuesday. I had the pessimistic view that you'd somehow fuck it up and scare him off first.
Appreciate the faith.
Hey, you've got a track record. Anyway, Vaughn wins. Pay up.
I don't respond to that. Just set the phone down and go back to watching Toby sleep.
The thing is, Jason's not wrong. I do have a track record. Quick fucks, easy releases, people who knew the score going in. Shifters, mostly, who could handle the rough and didn't expect anything after. I've never brought anyone breakfast. Never run a bath. Never wanted to.
But Toby shifts in his sleep, making a soft sound of discomfort, and something in my chest clenches. He's sore. Of course he's sore—I was rough with him. Rougher than I probably should have been with a human. But he'd taken it so well. Begged for more even when I tried to slow down. Wrapped his legs around me and pulled me deeper when I suggested we take a break.
Still.
I slide out of bed carefully, moving with the kind of silence that comes from years of predator instincts. Toby doesn't stir. In the bathroom, I start running a hot bath—almost too hot, the way I like it after a hard ride, when my muscles are screaming. I find the muscle soak salts under the sink, the ones I bought for post-ride recovery, and dump in a generous amount. The bathroom fills with eucalyptus and something herbal.
Then the kitchen. Water bottles from the fridge—he needs to hydrate after last night. Fruit from the bowl on the counter: grapes, strawberries, some of those little clementinesJason keeps buying because he's obsessed with them. Protein bars from the cabinet. He needs real food, probably hasn't had a proper meal since lunch yesterday, but this'll do until I can get something more substantial in him.
I arrange it all on a tray I didn't even know I owned—must've been a housewarming gift from someone—and carry it back to the bedroom.
Toby's stirring now. His face scrunches up as consciousness drags him back, and he makes a disgruntled sound into the pillow that has no business being as cute as it is.
"Time's it?" he mumbles, words slurred with sleep.
"Seven."
"Fuck." He tries to push himself up and immediately collapses with a groan, face-planting back into the pillow. "Oh my god. I can't move. You broke me. I'm broken. This is it. This is how I die."
"You're not dying."
"I'm definitely dying. Every muscle in my body is staging a revolt." He turns his head just enough to glare at me with one eye. "This is your fault."
"Guilty." I sit on the edge of the bed, setting the tray on the nightstand. My hand finds his back almost without conscious thought, running down the curve of his spine. His skin is warm from sleep, smooth except for where my nails left faint red lines. "Bath's running. It'll help."
He goes still under my touch. Then he turns his head more fully, and his expression shifts from grumpy to something softer. Wondering.
"You ran me a bath?"
"You're sore."
"Whose fault is that?" But there's no real accusation in it. He's looking at me like I've done something remarkable, likerunning a bath is some grand romantic gesture and not just basic fucking decency after the night we had.
"Knox." He reaches out, fingers brushing my knee where I'm sitting beside him. "That's really... you didn't have to do that."
"You needed it."
"Still." His thumb traces a small circle against my skin. "Thank you."
