My stomach dipped before I could stop it. A ridiculous reaction, maybe—but after everything we’d just shared, seeing that screen light up tugged at something uneasy in my chest.
“Okay, so I’ve been thinking,” he said, thumbs flying across the screen. His eyes were bright, energized in a way I hadn’t seen before. “You don’t need anything fancy to start. A decent condenser mic would run you maybe a hundred bucks. You could record straight into your laptop using free software.”
I blinked. “What?”
“For the music thing.” He turned the phone toward me, showing me a website full of microphone reviews. “See, this one’s got great reviews for vocals. And it’s USB, so you don’t need a separate audio interface. Plug and play.”
He was already scrolling to another page, pulling up something about acoustic treatment—how to make a bedroom sound like a recording studio using blankets and foam panels. His enthusiasm was almost contagious.
Almost.
“And distribution is easy now,” he continued, still caught up in the idea. “You could have your first cover up within a month if you wanted. Build an audience on social media?—”
“Knox.”
He looked up, finally registering my tone. The excitement on his face faded, replaced by concern. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
I hesitated. The words tangled in my throat, because I didn’t want to hurt him—and I didn’t want to sound ungrateful. I just…felt off, suddenly, like something fragile had shifted.
“It’s just…” I shook my head, trying to slow my breathing. “Five minutes ago, we were in that storage room, and now you’re researching equipment and timelines.” I gestured vaguely at his phone. “I think it caught me off guard.”
He stayed quiet, listening.
“It made me feel like I skipped a few steps,” I continued more carefully. “Like we went from…that…straight to problem-solving. And I know you mean well. I do.” I swallowed. “It just felt a little like I turned into a task instead of a person.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s not how I see you.”
“I know.” I exhaled, hating how defensive my voice sounded anyway. “And maybe this is my stuff talking. But you said it yourself—you’re the fixer. People come to you with problems, and you fix them. Your dad, your brother-in-law, the firehouse…” I gave a small, shaky laugh. “I guess I panicked for a second and wondered if I’d just landed on that list too.”
For a moment, he just looked at me. Then he leaned back slightly, jaw tight—not shutting down, but absorbing the hit.
“Wow,” he said. “Okay.”
The hurt in his voice made my chest ache immediately. Regret followed on its heels.
“I didn’t mean that the way it came out,” I said quickly. “I don’t think you’re trying to save me. I just—” I pressed my lips together. “I’m bad at letting people want things for me.”
His shoulders loosened. He rubbed a hand over his face, then leaned forward again, eyes intent.
“I’m not trying to manage your life, Teddie. And I’m definitely not trying to fix you.” His voice was steady, earnest. “I heard you sing, and something clicked. Then you told me about your dream, and I thought—I can support that. If you want it. Not because you need rescuing, but because I believe in you.”
My throat tightened.
“I spend most of my life fixing things because someonehasto,” he went on. “But this?” He gestured between us. “This didn’t feel like obligation. It felt like choice.” He reached across the table, taking my hand. “You’re not a project. You’re…something I want.”
That did it. Tears blurred my vision, hot and fast.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I just got scared. I didn’t expect this to feel so real so quickly.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed my knuckles. “I’m scared too. But I’m still here.”
I laughed weakly, wiping under my eyes. “We’ve known each other for like six hours, and I almost self-destructed.”
He smiled—soft, warm, unwavering. “You didn’t. You told me the truth. That’s not self-destruction. That’s…trust.”
His phone buzzed on the table. We both glanced down—the family group chat lighting up again.
Knox looked at it, then typed something. I waited patiently until finally, he turned the phone toward me.
