My ribs ached a little when I twisted, but there was no sharpness—just a dull, petulant reminder that bones heal slower than nerves. I pulled up the borrowed t-shirt—Knox’s, faded, with the outline of some heavy metal band logo sandblasted to a ghost—and counted the colors along my side: purple to green to yellow, an artist’s palette of trauma. The swelling had gone down, and I could finally sneeze without seeing stars.
A week at the McKenzie farm and the worst injury left was a sunburn on the back of my neck from “helping” Harlow clear the stables yesterday. Knox warned me to wear sunscreen, but I’d been distracted by the sight of him swinging a shovel, shirt off, his whole upper body gleaming with sweat and effort.
I’d pretended not to look.
I think he pretended not to notice.
I wet my hands and splashed my face, then stared into the mirror again, trying to imagine what it looked like to see me from across a table. Would anyone even notice the damage anymore? Did I look like I belonged here, in a bathroom full of old cologne bottles and mystery ointments and a dented can labeled “Bag Balm”?
Bag Balm. I snorted.
Even the skincare in this house was masculine.
After using the toilet, I shuffled back into the bedroom and straight to Knox’s bed. My quick exile from my life had landed me in Knox’s old bedroom, which doubled as his current bedroom and also his gym, his office, and his impromptu armory.
The room had the close, private scent of someone who did not plan to share space—cedar and tobacco and something else, something deep and electric, maybe the oil he used to clean the rifle in the corner.
I’d spent the first three nights trying not to move too much, because I didn’t want to mess up the bedding. Then Knox made the tactical error of saying, “Stop acting like you’re gonna get shot if you wrinkle a sheet,” and after that I made a point of rolling around until the fitted corners popped off the mattress.
This morning, I lay back on the tangle of sheets and let the smell of him fill my head. There was a shirt tucked under the pillow, and I pulled it close, pretending it was just for warmth, not the need to bury my nose in the collar and inhale like some kind of pervert.
The effect was instant—a flush, heat crawling down my neck and up my cheeks, plus a pulse of energy straight to my groin, which Knox had expertly trained me to ignore for seven days straight.
I was pretty sure he’d read the entire Marine Corps field manual on not giving in to temptation. I’d never seen someone show so much skin and so little reaction, not even when I caught him in the laundry room, towel around his hips, chest and thighs shiny-wet, droplets running in slow motion over his tattoos.
He just arched an eyebrow and said,“Toss me the detergent,” as if I wasn’t on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
Maybe this was what withdrawal felt like.
I rolled out of bed, my own body doing the thing where it started to anticipate breakfast before my brain was awake. I peed again, washed my hands, and tried to flatten the wild strawberry blond mess on my head. I’d never gotten used to seeing myself with bed hair. It made me look younger, or maybe just less haunted.
In the hallway, I paused outside the kitchen, listening for signs of life. There was music—a deep, gravelly voice on the radio, probably outlaw country—and then the sharper sound of plates being stacked.
I heard Ransom first, his laughter like a shotgun, followed by the deep, calm rumble of Harlow. I hung back until a good moment, then entered.
The kitchen was an architecture of wood—thick table, beams across the ceiling, cabinets with worn iron pulls.
Knox was at the stove, spatula in hand, barefoot and shirtless in the morning light. There was a faint sheen of oil on his forearms, and his hair stuck up in four directions like he’d just come off a three-day bender.
He didn’t look at me right away, which meant he knew I was there. “Morning,” he said, tone clipped, but not unfriendly.
Ransom and Harlow grunted their own greetings, the latter already halfway through a tower of pancakes. I took my usual seat at the end of the table, folding my hands to keep them from fidgeting.
Knox set a plate in front of me—eggs, bacon, toast, all arranged with drill-sergeant symmetry—and then sat directly across, arms folded. His chest was broad, a roadmap of scars and tattoos, and I had to drag my eyes up to his face before I did something embarrassing, like drool.
“Eat,” he said.
I did. The food was perfect, of course. I tried to pace myself, but after one bite the rest disappeared in under two minutes. I reached for the salt, but Knox’s hand beat me to it, and our fingers grazed.
Electricity. Full-on, zero-resistance zap, right down to my toes.
My hand jerked, and I fumbled the shaker. It hit the plate with a crash, scattering salt everywhere. I mumbled an apology, then tried to brush the mess off the table. My face went so hot I thought my freckles might fuse into one giant supernova.
Knox didn’t say anything, but he watched me, eyes dark and a little too focused. His hand lingered for a second on the table, big and steady, and I wanted to reach out and lace my fingers through his just to see if the world would end.
Instead I grabbed my fork and stabbed a piece of bacon, chewing in silence.
Ransom, who missed nothing but pretended otherwise, sipped his coffee and said, “You feeling better, Newt? Look like you finally took a punch to the face and lived to tell about it.”
