Did I say all of it out loud? Every ugly, rotting piece? Did he hear it and stay?
Cold, familiar panic skitters up my spine. For one horrible second, I'm convinced the arm around my waist is leftover muscle memory and nothing else.
Then Knox shifts beneath me.
Rearranging. Settling. His chest expands on a deeper inhale, and his thumb drags a lazy path along the curve of my hip. He's been awake long enough to start tracing me again.
"You're awake," he murmurs, voice sandpapered with sleep.
"I thought you might've—"
"Not a chance." His hand squeezes at my waist, firm enough that my body gets the message before my brain does. Here. Staying.
I force my head up, blinking past the stiffness in my neck.
He's already watching me.
His eyes are softer than I expect, but that dark, hungry focus is still there underneath, coiled and barely leashed. There's restraint too, the kind that looks almost painful. As though he wants to devour me and is committed to taking one small, careful bite at a time. Heat unfurls in my stomach.
"You okay?" Knuckle grazing my jaw. The callus catches on my skin, sending a tiny shock straight to my throat.
"I… think so."
His gaze drags over my face as though he's checking for damage he can't bandage. Lingering at the corners of my eyes, at my mouth, at the ache I'm sure is carved into my expression.
"Good," he says quietly, though the word lands more as a vow than a verdict. "Come on. Let's get off this damn floor before my spine files a complaint."
A startled sound slips out, half laugh, half hiccup. It scrapes against the raw places in my chest, but doesn't hurt the way I expect. He smiles at the noise. It's just a small curve at the corner of his mouth, but on his face it loosens a knot I've been clenching since yesterday.
He sits up first, shifting carefully so I don't topple. His jaw tightens when he straightens, one hand pressing into his lower back. He rolls his neck and I hear it crack twice.
"Told you," I murmur.
"Worth it."
He doesn't hesitate. His hands slide to my hips, hauling me to my feet, and I catch the way his shoulders lock when he stands. He moves through it as though it's nothing. I know better. Two years of watching this man absorb damage and pretend it doesn't register.
My knees dip just once. They hold. Barely.
His grip tightens. He stands there, unmovable, until the room stops tilting and my weight is fully my own. Only then do his hands ease, fingers still splayed wide, not quite ready to trust gravity.
The kitchen feels another world away, cooler, the tile smooth under my bare feet instead of scratchy rug. The window over the sink acts more as a mirror, catching our reflections in vague outlines. Knox moves through the space on autopilot, as though his body has a map for my mornings now.
He fiddles with the coffeemaker, nudging the side when it makes a protesting cough. "Don't start," he mutters, scowling at it.
Coffee drips, the refrigerator hums, and the wall clock ticks. The normalcy feels surreal layered over last night's wreckage.
I drift toward the counter, reaching automatically for the crooked stack of mail, bills, flyers, something from Maggie in a pastel envelope. To straighten it, sort it, prove I'm not just taking up space.
Knox's fingertips land warm against my knuckles.
"You don't have to do anything," he says quietly, eyes on my face instead of our hands. "You don't earn your place here. You already have one."
The words land low and deep, settling into a place I'd convinced myself was empty. Heat stings behind my eyes. My fingers loosen from the mail. I let go.
"Okay," I manage, barely a breath.
He pours coffee into two mugs and doctors mine the way I love it. Too much creamer, not enough sugar, even though he always grumbles that I "ruin perfectly good coffee." When he hands it to me, our fingers brush, and the jolt is laughably disproportionate.
