“Relax,” he said, voice close enough that I felt it through my bones.
“Hard to, when you’re standing so close,” I blurted.
There was a pause. I braced for the lecture or the mockery, but he just rinsed the pan and set it aside. “That’s the idea,” he muttered, almost too low to catch.
My brain short-circuited. I dried the next glass at half-speed, watching him out of the corner of my eye. Was he messing with me? Was he flirting? Did he even know how?
I decided to test the theory.
“Most people would say ‘thanks’ if I helped out around the house,” I ventured. “Or maybe give me a medal. Or… I don’t know. Take me out for ice cream?”
He side-eyed me, then reached for the next plate. “You want ice cream, I’ll get you ice cream.”
“You say that, but you haven’t even offered me a single scoop.”
He didn’t answer, but his cheeks colored, just slightly, which I counted as another win. I tried to stand a little closer, see if he’d move away.
He didn’t.
I bumped his arm, pretending it was an accident. “You’re really strong. Have you always been that strong or is it a recent development?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Are you fishing for a compliment?”
“Maybe.”
He considered, then shrugged. “You’re not bad yourself. For someone who looks like they might blow away in a stiff wind.”
Compliment accepted. I glowed for a second, then realized he’d handed me a soapy plate without warning and now my hands were wet and slippery.
I tried to catch it as it tumbled, but it was a lost cause. The plate hit the counter and a tsunami of water shot up, soaking Knox’s shirt from sternum to waistband.
I froze, mortified. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
He cut me off by pulling his shirt over his head in one swift motion. The fabric clung for a second, then peeled off with a sound that made my brain stop. He stood there, bare-chested, skin flushed from heat and effort, every muscle and scar on display.
There were a lot of scars. Some looked surgical, precise and planned. Others were rough, ragged things that told their own stories—a jagged one along his ribs, a white slash at the collarbone, and a few more on his arms. Each one was a record of some past pain, and together they made him look even more indestructible, if that was possible.
He didn’t seem to notice my staring. He just wrung out the shirt and tossed it over the back of a chair.
I wanted to say something clever, but my tongue felt cemented to the roof of my mouth. I tried to hand him a towel, but it slipped out of my grip and landed at his feet.
He bent to pick it up, and when he straightened, he was close enough that I could see the individual hairs on his chest, the pattern of freckles across his shoulders.
“You okay?” he said.
No, I was definitely not okay.
I nodded, then realized I was still gripping a wet plate. I set it on the rack and wiped my hands on my pants.
Knox dabbed at his torso with the towel, eyes unreadable. “If it bothers you, I can put a shirt on.”
“What?” I said, voice squeaky. “No, it doesn’t—no. I mean, I don’t mind. At all.”
He looked at me, really looked, as if he was searching for something in my face. Whatever he saw made him soften, just a little.
“Some people can’t handle the scars,” he said. “You don’t have to pretend it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I said. “But I’m not… I mean, I have some, too. Not as impressive. Just—inside, mostly.” I laughed, a nervous, breathy sound.
