I watched his jaw work. The way he pressed his tongue against his molars, like he was fighting something back.
“Hey.” I touched his arm. “Grab whatever looks good. Grab five boxes. Grab ten. We have a whole pantry to fill.”
He looked down at me, and for a split second, the mask slipped. I saw the overwhelm he’d never admit to. The disorientation of being handed back a life full of choices after years of having none.
“I’m not used to this,” he said quietly. Not a complaint. An observation. Like he was narrating his own reentry into a world that had moved on without him.
I laced my fingers through his. His hand engulfed mine, warm and rough and steady. “We’ll figure it out together. One box of cereal at a time.”
He squeezed my hand once. Then he grabbed the Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
“Good choice,” I said.
“I have excellent taste.”
“You’re dating me, so obviously.”
He huffed a laugh and followed me through the rest of the store, seemingly oblivious to every female head that swiveled in his direction as he walked past. A woman in yoga pants literally stopped mid-squeeze of an avocado to stare. A teenage girl at the deli counter whispered something to her friend, and they both giggled.
He helped me reach things on the top shelf without me having to ask. He loaded everything onto the belt. He carried every bag to the car in one trip—because of course he did—his arms barely registering the weight.
I started the engine and buckled my seat belt. “We need to get you a license next.”
“There are so many things I haven’t thought about in years.” He said it simply. A man taking inventory of a life that had been on pause.
“We’ll make a list. You need to open a bank account. Get your driver’s license. Get a car.”
“Figure out my favorite food.”
“Figure out your favorite food,” I agreed.
“Figure out my favorite sexual position.”
I smacked his bicep. He didn’t even flinch. Probably felt like a mosquito landing on a boulder.
“You are incorrigible.”
“I’mthorough.There’s a difference.”
“There really isn’t.”
He leaned over and pressed a kiss to my temple, and I felt it all the way down to my toes.
Later, I kept my promise.
I stood in the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pale blue apron and a questionable amount of self-respect. The ties knotted at my lower back, the fabric barely covering everything thatmattered, and I could feel Knox’s gaze on me like a physical thing. Warm. Heavy. Relentless.
“Stop staring and make yourself useful.” I pulled the chicken out of the fridge.
“I am useful. I’m providing moral support.”
“You’re providing a distraction.”
“Also useful.”
I pointed the spatula at him. “You. Chair. Now.”
He dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and leaned back, stretching his legs out and crossing his arms behind his head. The picture of innocence, if innocence were six foot four and covered in tattoos and looking at you like he was calculating exactly how long it would take to get that apron off.
