“He doesn’t like anybody.”
Another silence. I tried to fill it with coffee, but the cup was empty. I rotated it between my palms, thinking about all the things I wanted to say and none of the ones I could get out.
“So, uh,” I said. “Harlow’s your brother?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s nice.”
Knox actually smiled this time. It was brief, but it was real. “Yeah, he is.”
The conversation might have died there, but I couldn’t let it. Not now. I wanted—I don’t know what I wanted. Maybe just a reason to stay, a reason that didn’t make me feel like a parasite.
“Do you need help with anything? Around the house, I mean. Or the barn. Or—I can fix stuff. Or organize things. I’m good at organizing.”
He gave me a look, the kind you give a dog that’s just learned to play dead and is very proud of itself. “You ever split wood?”
“I mean, no, but I can learn.”
He nodded, slowly. “We’ll see.”
I tried not to beam, but failed.
As I stood to take my plate to the sink, he said, “Leave it.”
I froze.
His voice was softer now. “You’re hurt. Take it easy.”
I nodded, sat back down, and did my best not to combust on the spot.
Knox moved past me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him through the air. He paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, body blocking the light in a way that should have looked threatening but didn’t.
He glanced back at me, eyes on the hoodie, then on my face. “Keep it,” he said again, low and rough. “Looks better on you anyway.”
Then he was gone.
I pulled the sleeves over my hands, hugged myself, and tried to remember the last time anyone said something that nice to me.
I couldn’t.
But maybe, if I was very careful, and didn’t mess things up, I’d get used to it.
Chapter Three
~ Knox ~
The McKenzie living room was a sepia-toned shrine to functional comfort. Nothing matched, but every piece looked like it had survived at least three world wars and a barn fire.
I parked myself in the battered armchair that nobody else used, boots braced wide, elbows on the rests, hands steepled so my fingers didn't twitch and give me away.
Newt hovered at the threshold, as if there might still be time to reverse the last twenty-four hours and walk out of my orbit unscathed. He didn't. Instead he made a little show of tucking the hoodie tighter around himself, then tiptoed across the rug and folded into the chair opposite.
His knees stuck out past the edge. I hadn't realized he was that long in the legs. The rest of him was as compact as I remembered—shoulders drawn up, arms crossed tight, a neck that looked like it belonged to a heron or a kid who'd been through too many growth spurts in too few years.
He caught me watching.
I didn't look away.
