“And then you got the orderly job,” I said slowly, “so you could just … be here.”
He didn’t look away. “Like I said, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
I should have been appalled. This man had just admitted to self-harm. To a level of fixation that should have sent me running.
But all I could think about was how it felt to have someone choose me. Not in spite of the cost, but because the cost didn’t matter. Because I mattered more.
His confession hung between us. I didn’t know what to do with it.
“Well”—I swallowed hard, forcing lightness into my voice—“now I feel like a jackass for talking crap about you.”
Knox’s chest rumbled with something resembling a chuckle. And, God help me, that sound settled into my bones like it belonged there.
“You were talking crap about me?” A twinkle appeared in his eye. Like he genuinely found this amusing. “To who?”
“Myself, mostly. In my head.” I shrugged. “It was a whole thing.”
“A whole thing,” he repeated, and was that a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth? “What kind of things were you saying to yourself about me?”
“That first day when you attacked Doyle, I thought you were a bully. An asshole.”
“Mmm.” He didn’t look offended. If anything, he looked entertained. “What else?”
I probably should have stopped there. But something about the warmth in his eyes made my mouth keep moving.
“I called you a psychotic fucktart.”
Knox laughed. The sound was rusty, like he didn’t use it often, but it transformed his entire face. The brooding intensity melted away, and for one heartbeat, I caught a glimpse of the man he might have been before prison. Before whatever put him here.
“Psychotic fucktart,” he repeated, savoring each syllable like he was tasting something rare. “That’s creative. Most people just go with asshole.”
“I’m an overachiever.”
“Clearly.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Any other names I should know about?”
“There may have been atattooed menacein there somewhere. And I’m pretty sure I referred to you asthat gigantic jerkat least twice.”
“Gigantic.” He nodded slowly, fighting a smile. “I’ll take that one.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’m choosing to take it as one.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. This was dangerous territory. Banter with inmates was not in the nursing handbook. Banter with this inmate specifically felt like playing with fire while soaked in kerosene.
“And now?” he asked, the humor fading into something more serious. “What do you call me now?”
I could deflect. Make another joke. Keep things light and safe.
But he’d just handed me the truth about Doyle. About his injuries. About all of it. He deserved some truth in return.
“Now I know you’re not a bully,” I said quietly. “You’re a protector.”
Something shifted in his face. Not quite surprise. More like … recognition. Like I’d seen something in him that had been buried so long, he’d forgotten it existed.
Knox’s whole body softened. The hard lines of his shoulders relaxed. His jaw unclenched. It was like my words had unlocked something in him. Like maybe no one had called him that in a very long time.
Or ever.
