It’s been so long since I felt like someonewantedto call me.
I trace a finger over the edge of my mug, smiling to myself as I listen to the faint sounds coming from the kitchen—the clink of dishes, the soft rush of running water, Knox humming low under his breath.
He’s still doing the dishes.
Of course he is.
He could’ve let them sit, but I think keeping busy gives him somewhere to put all that restless energy. Every so often, I hear the scrape of a plate against the counter and that quiet sigh he makes when he finishes a task.
And I canfeelit from here—the quiet, glowing kind of happiness rolling off him. He’s proud of himself for what he gave me today, proud that he could fix something in my life instead of breaking it.
A small, wry smile tugs at my mouth.
Well, he owed me that much.
It’s a sharp thought, but I can’t help it. He hurt me. What he did doesn’t just disappear because he fixed one thing. And yet…
There’s a part of me that still feels so achingly thankful. Because hearing my parents’ voices, knowing they’re okay—thatI’mokay—that’s something I didn’t think I’d ever have again.
And Knox made it happen.
I sink deeper into the blankets of my portable nest, eyes drifting toward the kitchen doorway. Knox’s silhouette moves across the light, broad shoulders coming into view as he cleans up. His careful movements don't fit the man who roared and bit and hurt me.
Maybe that’s why it still upsets me so much. Because I can’t tell which version of him is real.
The water shuts off. The hum stops.
And still, I don’t move.
I just hold my cold mug a little tighter and whisper into the quiet, “Thank you.”
Even if he can’t hear it.
Then a sharp twist of frustration hits me—fast, sudden, and hot in my chest. Before I can think about it, I’m already on my feet, the blanket sliding off my lap and pooling on the floor. The mug clinks against the coffee table as I set it down too hard.
Something’s wrong. I canfeelit.
My heart beats faster with every step toward the kitchen. The faint scent of iron cuts through the air before I even reach the doorway, and dread blooms in my throat.
Knox stands by the sink, shoulders tense, staring down at his hand. The tiny light over the sink gleams off his skin—and that’s when I see it. Blood. Bright, fresh red, sliding down his thumb.
“Knox!” His name rips out of me with a gasp. I cross the kitchen in three strides. “What happened?”
He jerks a little, like he hadn’t heard me come in. Then he looks up, face calm in that too-controlled way that tells me it’s not.
“I’m fine,” he says simply.
But I can see the way his jaw ticks, the tendons in his arm flexing as he tries to hide the cut. There’s a deepgash along the pad of his thumb, bleeding steadily. A soapy knife sits on the counter beside him, glinting under the light.
“You’rebleeding,” I say, a little too sharply.
Knox shakes his head, giving me that small, reassuring half-smile that doesn’t fool me for a second. “It’s nothing, sweetheart. Just a nick.”
I step closer, grab his wrist, and tug. “Sit.”
“Skyla—”
“Sit down, Knox.”
