When he opens the door, his room feels warm and lived-in. Simple but undeniably Knox.
He motions for me to step in first but lingers in the doorway. “It’s all original—the same furniture my grandparents left behind. Except the bed. Their mattress would’ve wrecked my back after a few nights.”
I glance at him over my shoulder.
“I swapped it out weeks ago, before my arrival,” he adds with a small shrug. “Had to special order the one I use in Manhattan. My body’s picky.”
“Noted,” I say, trying not to picture him asleep in both places. “Luxurious spinal support.”
“My chiropractor would’ve staged an intervention,” he says with a smirk. “Left side’s mine. But I’m open to negotiations.”
A few hours later, the house is still. Bags unpacked. Bottles washed. Lights dimmed.
Stripe and Shadow have been fed and are now curled up in what Knox affectionately calls theirupstairsplaypen, nestled beneath the bedroom window with its postcard-perfect view of the sea. For the record, they also havedownstairsandoutdoorplaypens because, apparently, these two demand real estate in every zip code.
We move through our new nighttime routine. I’m already showered, in shorts and a matching cropped camisole. He’s in pajama pants and a tee, towel-drying his hair in the en-suite bathroom.
The air feels heavy with something unspoken but not unwelcome, and if one were to peek in on us, they’d assume this had been our routine for years.
Knox pads over to the bed and pulls back the gray duvet and sheets, his movements unhurried. I slide into the right side, the cool edge of the sheet skimming over my bare legs, making me shiver.
The bedding smells like him. Clean cotton and something woodsy, like cedar and skin and summer.
He clicks off the overhead light, leaving only the amber glow of the nightstand lamp.
“Pillow okay?” he asks, settling in beside me.
“Perfect,” I say, adjusting mine, stealing a brief sideways glance his way.
We lie still for a moment, facing the ceiling, our arms brushing beneath the sheet.
“I’m not crowding you, am I?” he asks, tone teasing.
“No,” I murmur. “Unless you’re planning to roll over at three a.m. and take all the covers.”
He shifts slightly. “Unlikely. You’re already hogging the good side.”
“You said the left side was yours.”
“Exactly.” His grin dares me to argue.
A beat of silence passes. Then he turns to me, voice softer. “Want to watch something? Helps me fall asleep when my mind’s still spinning.”
I nod, grateful for his thoughtfulness. “Sure. But nothing with explosions or zombies.”
He smirks, eyes rolling. “Well, there goes my top five.”
Knox grabs the remote from the nightstand and flips on the TV, a dim glow flickering across the room as he scrolls.
Eventually, he settles on some nature doc narrated by a man who sounds like he’s perpetually two sips into a whiskey nightcap.
After setting a sixty-minute sleep timer, we settle in, the hum of British-accented facts about humpback whales filling the space.
A few minutes later, I feel Knox’s hand find mine beneath the sheet, fingers warm and comforting.
As I turn to look at him, his gaze is already waiting.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” I whisper.
