I thought about my own old place in Portland—two milk crates for a nightstand, a mattress with no frame, the sheets usually missing or tangled. My “system” was whatever got me out the door fastest. I lived in entropy; Jo thrived on rules.
We couldn’t have been more opposite, but standing here, I realized how badly I wanted to be a part of his order, to let it fix me or at least hold me in place for a minute.
I moved to the bookshelf, pulled down the copy of Call of the Wild. The pages were stiff, the spine cracked with use. I leafedthrough to the inside cover and found, in Jo’s steady hand, “Moxley—property of.”
It made me grin, and then something hot shot up my neck, because for half a second I imagined what it would be like to be property, to be held and kept and never let go.
I jammed the book back on the shelf before my thoughts could go any darker.
As I settled onto the edge of the bed again, I noticed my own boots tucked neatly under the side table, laces reset and the dirt already wiped off. My battered duffel, the one with all my clothes and art supplies, had been zipped and set upright beside the chair in the corner. Nothing had been touched that didn’t need to be, but everything had been placed just so, as if Jo could fix the past by lining it up straight.
My gaze swept back to the door, and a spike of panic shot through me—what if he came in and found me poking around? But even that thought had a thrill buried inside it, the anticipation of being caught and told what to do.
Jesus, I was so fucked up.
I flopped back onto the bed, landing with a thump that rattled my brain. Stitches stung, ribs howled, but I didn’t care. For the first time in years, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, and the world could burn outside for all I cared.
I stared up at the ceiling, hands behind my head, and waited for Jo to come and put everything back in its place. I must have drifted, because when I blinked back to life, the light had sharpened, bright and yellow, slanting across the room.
For a second I couldn’t tell if it was dawn or late afternoon, but then the smell hit me—a hard, bitter jolt of fresh-brewed coffee, rich and dark, underpinned by the faint sweetness of something baking in the oven.
I sat up, heart pounding, and listened. There it was—the muted clatter of a mug being set on the counter, the scrapeof a chair over the kitchen floor, footsteps moving slow and deliberate. Jo was awake, and not just awake but in full command of the territory, making noise like he owned it.
Like he owned me.
I shivered, skin prickling with the memory of his hand on my face, the soft pressure, the way he’d ordered me to sit, to eat, to let myself be taken care of. It should have pissed me off, but instead I felt the anticipation coil inside me, tight as a spring.
I rolled off the bed, bare feet hitting the floor, and padded over to the window. The street below was empty except for a couple of trucks parked nose-to-tail in the lot and a stray dog trotting past the shop. The river cut a bright line in the distance, cold and blue, but the only current I cared about was the one in my veins, pounding so loud I thought it might shake the walls.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the dresser and almost didn’t recognize what I saw. My hair was a mess, one eye puffy and black, the stitches on my cheek inflamed and angry. The flannel shirt I’d borrowed from Jo hung off my frame, sleeves rolled up and cuffs frayed.
I looked like hell, but there was a spark in my eyes I hadn’t seen in a long time—something restless, hungry, alive.
The footsteps came closer, the heavy tread of boots crossing the hall. I panicked, scrambled back to the bed, and flung myself onto the mattress, twisting the blanket around me and rolling onto my side. I tucked my chin, pressed my cheek into the pillow, and let my eyes slide half-shut.
Maybe if I looked convincingly asleep, he wouldn’t notice how hard my heart was hammering, how every muscle in my body was tensed like a tripwire.
I heard the kitchen door swing shut, the latch clicking into place. The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in. For a minute, I wondered if he’d gone back downstairs to the shop, leaving me to stew in my own sweat and shame. But thenthe steps started again, slower this time, measured and heavy, coming straight for the bedroom.
I gripped the edge of the blanket, knuckles white, and forced my breathing to even out. In through the nose, slow and steady. Out through the mouth, like I’d learned in a thousand anger-management classes that never took. My pulse drummed in my neck, hot and wild, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut just to keep from bolting upright.
The steps stopped outside the door. I could hear the faint rasp of Jo’s breath, could picture him on the other side—arms folded, jaw set, probably weighing all his options before deciding whether to come in and tell me to get my shit together or just let me sleep it off.
The moment stretched, endless, and I felt every second crawl over my skin. The anticipation was a living thing, gnawing at my insides. I wanted him to come in, wanted him to see me like this—vulnerable, waiting, desperate for the next order.
There was a click, the soft creak of the doorknob turning, and I went perfectly still. If he was watching, I didn’t want to give away that I’d been awake for hours, counting the footsteps, memorizing every sound. I wanted to see what he would do with me, what he would say if he thought I was still half gone, unable to fight back.
The door opened, slow and careful. I kept my face buried in the pillow, let my body go slack, but my ears drank in every detail. Jo’s boots thudded softly against the floor. There was a pause, a rustle as he set something down on the nightstand. The smell of coffee doubled, thick and inviting, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.
I cracked one eye, just enough to see the edge of his silhouette. He was standing over the bed, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression he wore when he was working on a problem with no easy solution.
He didn’t say a word, just stood there, the heat of his gaze pinning me in place. I felt my whole body tighten, every nerve lit up like a warning flare.
Then, without a sound, he leaned down and brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. His hand lingered, big and rough, palm warm against my scalp. He traced his thumb along the side of my face, careful not to touch the bruised part, and I could feel the calluses scrape ever so gently over my skin.
I almost blew my cover right then, almost rolled over and begged him to touch me everywhere, to tell me what to do next. But I kept still, let my breath go ragged, let him think I was lost in sleep.
He let out a soft grunt, the kind that was half frustration, half affection. I heard the scrape of the chair as he dragged it closer to the bed, then the creak as he settled in, the back legs popping under his weight. He sat there, silent, for a long time, just watching.
