I nodded toward the living room. “Top drawer of the sideboard. Pencils and paper.”
He went, found them, and sat cross-legged on the floor in the sunlight, the sketchbook propped on his knee. He started to draw, head bent, every muscle in his back loose. I watched him from the kitchen, drinking my coffee, letting the moment stretch.
Every so often, I’d glance over and see his eyes flick up, searching for me. When he caught me looking, he’d hold my gaze for a breath, then drop it, like he wanted to be watched, but didn’t know how to ask.
I got up, walked over, and stood behind him. “What are you working on?”
He turned the page, showed me a sketch of the shop from memory: the bikes, the workbenches, my toolbox in the background. It was sharp, angry, lines slashed hard, but it looked exactly right.
“Looks good,” I said, hand on the back of his neck before I knew what I was doing.
He tensed under my touch, but didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned into it, just a little, like it cost him everything not to.
I squeezed, then let go. “You need anything else?”
He shook his head, then: “You always this… in charge?”
I knelt beside him, made him meet my eyes. “You always this ready to listen?”
He grinned, crooked and slow. “Only when it’s worth it.”
I reached up, brushed his hair out of his eyes. “You’re stubborn as hell,” I told him honestly, “but you like it when someone tells you what to do.”
He held my gaze, jaw set. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
I kept my hand on the back of his head, thumb stroking the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. His eyelids fluttered, breath going shallow.
I leaned in. “Then you’ll stay here until I say otherwise. You hear me?”
He swallowed, and for a second I thought he’d break, but he only nodded. “Yeah. I hear you.”
I sat back, the urge to push further nearly too much. But then I heard the sound of a truck outside, the familiar cough of an old diesel. I stood, instantly on edge.
Bo must’ve heard it too, because his shoulders went stiff. “That’s—”
“Knox,” I said, already walking to the window. I watched as the battered Ford rolled into the drive, dust haloing around the wheels. I recognized the way Knox parked, two wheels up on the curb like he was daring someone to call him on it.
I turned to Bo, the order out of my mouth before I could check it. “Stay here. Don’t move until I get back.”
He nodded, but this time there was no sass, no challenge. “Yes, sir,” he said, soft but clear.
The words hit me hard. I felt the pulse in my throat, my hands curling into fists. I wanted to go back, drag him to his knees, and show him exactly what those two words did to me. But the doorbell rang, slicing the moment in half.
I grabbed the flannel off the chair, shrugged it on, and went down the stairs. Knox was at the door, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, jaw clenched so hard the muscles looked ready to snap.
He didn’t bother with hello. “He up there?”
I nodded. “Sleeping. Or pretending to.”
Knox eyed me, suspicion burning in every line of his face. “You get him to take the meds?”
“Yeah. And breakfast. He’s fine, Knox.”
Knox looked past me, scanning the entryway. “I want to see him.”
I put myself between him and the stairs. “Give him some time. He had a rough night.”
Knox snorted. “Every night’s a rough night with him.” He let the bag drop, then scrubbed a hand over his beard. “You think he’s gonna stay this time?”
