She shoves a hand through her damp hair, fingers snagging on a tangle. "I can't—" She stops herself. "I can't need you like this, Knox."
"This is about need?"
She stares at the wall. "I'm here in your bed, and for the first time in years I don't feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin. That's not safe. This was supposed to be temporary." A tear slips down her cheek. She scrubs it away with the heel of her hand. "The first time you asked me to marry you, I told myself it was survival. I could handle survival. But this?" Her voice fractures. "I'm starting to want it, Knox. The real version. And wanting things is how my father taught me to lose them."
Her mouth flinches before she catches it. Her eyes go flat, the way they did in the car when she talked about her father's messes. I shift to the edge beside her, catch her jaw, thumb swiping the tear before it falls, and turn her face toward me. She resists for a second, then lets me.
"Sloane," I say, low and steady. "Look at me." Her eyes meet mine, furious and wet. "You don't owe me anything."
"Then why—"
"Because I'm not backing out," I cut in. "I'm not walking away from any of it. Or you." I trace her cheekbone. "I know the risks and what it costs. I'm still here."
Tears flood her. "You don't know me."
"I know enough," I say. "You ran to me when you could've run anywhere. For years, you put yourself between other people and your father's messes. After I made you come so hard you forgot your name, I saw the apology all over your face. Like wanting me was something to be sorry for." My mouth twists. "I won't add to it."
Color crawls up her neck. "You said this was temporary."
"Did you want it to be?" She doesn't answer. That silence is answer enough. "You already said yes once. I'm asking again. Marry me."
Her breath catches. "Knox, that was paperwork. You said so yourself."
"I lied." I tap my chest. "I'm asking for this. For you landing in my space and staying there. The legal shield still holds if Mercer comes looking. But that's the excuse. This is the reason."
"We barely know each other," she says, voice paper-thin.
"So we'll learn." I shrug.
She laughs, broken. "You're insane."
"Probably. Doesn't change the question."
"You don't want me," she says, trying to convince us both. "You want to protect something broken and call it purpose."
"I want you." No hesitation. "The version of you that scares you. Don't shrink for me."
Her eyes shine. "You make me sound—"
"Real," I finish. "You are."
Her hands twist the sheet. "This is going to end," she says hoarsely. "One way or another. You can't promise it won't. I have no idea how to let myself have something I can't keep."
I lean in and rest my forehead against hers. "Then don't promise forever," I murmur. "Don't promise anything you don't have in you. Give me what you can. Right now. Whatever that is. I'll take it."
"Why does that sound worse?" she whispers. "Like you're handing me everything and pretending the change is enough."
"Because it is enough," I say. "You don't have to match what I'm putting down. Just don't run."
Tears spill over, but she doesn't wipe them away this time. "Yes," she whispers.
The word lands different than it did in the motel. I nod, though every part of me knows there's no undoing this.
"Yes," I say back. My jaw locks. My hands go still. "Come back," I murmur.
She exhales, tension snapping, and folds into me again, crawling back under my arm. She tucks herself beneath my chin. I settle my hand on her hip. Her fingers curl into the fabric at my side as if she's afraid I'll disappear in my sleep. I stare at the ceiling. Cheap paint and soft shadows. Her breathing slows against my chest until it's the only sound in the room.
Chapter 8
