His brows lift slightly. He's already working the math. "Sloane."
"You didn't sleep last night," I say, voice stronger than I feel. "You can't take another chair. Your neck—your back—you can barely move your shoulders today." A flicker crosses his face. Surprise. Maybe hunger. "I'm not letting you do that again," I add. "Not when we're far enough for you to actually rest."
His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking once. "I'm fine."
"You're not." I step closer before I can overthink it. "You're sharing the bed with me."
The air between us shifts. Heavy. Electric.
His hands curl at his sides, knuckles turning white. Heat crawls up his neck, staining the skin above his collar, then his eyes go dark in a way that makes my stomach drop. His focus sharpens, as though it's costing him everything to stay still.
"Sloane," he says again, quieter. Rougher. "I'm not crowding you."
"You're not." I swallow. "If I didn't want you near me, you'd know."
He studies me a heartbeat too long, gaze tracing my face, my grip on my sleeves, the tension in my shoulders. "You sure?"
"Yes," I whisper.
He nods once. Sharp. Controlled. As though he's made a decision that's going to cost him.
"All right, you take your side. I'll take mine." He stops in front of me without crossing the lines he knows I need. "Stop pretending you're fine," he murmurs.
I sink onto the edge of the bed because my legs aren't reliable. Knox watches me, reading how close I am to folding.
"I… I need a shower." My voice is thin. Embarrassing.
"Good," he says softly. "Hot water will help."
He gives me room. I gather the clothes Knox grabbed at the last gas stop, a T-shirt and sweats, and slip past him. He doesn't let me out of his sight until the door is nearly closed.
The final inch hesitates in my hand. I should lock it. Put something solid between me and the world. Between me and men who don't knock. I don't.
Steam fills the room quickly. The white noise drowns out everything. I peel off my clothes with shaking fingers, move under the spray, and breathe for the first time in hours.
The water is hot enough to sting. The sting brings me back.
Pieces of last night echo through me. My skin remembers where Knox touched me. The parking lot when his chest slammed into mine, the way his hand found the back of my neck and held me steady. The hotel hallway with his palm pressed to the base of my spine, burning through fabric. I ache in places he never touched; my throat, my hips, the inside of my wrists.
I press my palms to the tile, forehead resting between them.
Knox, who stayed awake for me. Who didn't take what he could have.
I shiver under the spray.
My thighs clench involuntarily, then shame floods me, hot and vicious. I want this. Want him. Even broken like this.
The silence is the worst part. My phone is in pieces in a motel trash can. My hands have nothing to fix. The quiet presses in from every side, and my chest doesn't know what to do with it.
Knox is on the other side of the door, waiting to see what's left when the armor falls. Just me. Bare. Breakable. Wanting him so badly my hands shake against the tile.
I turn off the water. The white noise dies, and the room goes silent. I strain to hear him through the door, footsteps, breathing, the creak of the chair, and hear nothing.
Wrapping a towel around myself, I stare at the fogged mirror, at the blurred reflection of a woman I barely recognize.
"Knox?" The word comes out small. Shaky.
His footsteps cross the room. His palm hits the wood on the other side. "Yeah? I'm here."
