Even if I saw the way he adjusted himself when he thought I wasn't looking.
Even if every instinct I have is telling me he wants me too.
I can't do this. Can't ask for more than he's already given. Can't be that person who mistakes kindness for attraction, protection for desire.
But I also can't stay in this room alone.
The silence is too loud. My thoughts are too chaotic. And every time I close my eyes, I see Derek's face. First angry, then apologetic, then angry again in that endless cycle I learned to navigate like a minefield.
I need... I don't know what I need. But I know I can't be alone right now.
Maybe that's selfish. Maybe I'm asking too much. Knuckles has already given me so much—safety, medical care, food, clothes, a place to sleep. And now I want to ask for more.
But I've spent two years not asking for what I need. Two years accepting whatever I was given and being grateful it wasn't worse.
Fuck that.
If I want something, I'm going to ask for it. And if the answer is no, at least I'll have tried instead of sitting here drowning in my own head.
The decision crystallizes in my mind with sudden, perfect clarity.
I need to not be alone. And he made me feel safer in three hours than I've felt in two years. So, I'm going to knock on his door and ask if I can stay with him for a while. Just to talk. Just to not be alone with my thoughts.
That's all.
Even if my body wants more. Even if my panties are embarrassingly wet and I can't stop thinking about his hands. Even if every nerve ending is awake and screaming for something I haven't let myself want in so long.
I'll ignore all that. I'll be appropriate. I'll take what he's willing to give, which is apparently kindness and protection, and I won't ask for more.
I change out of the robe and into one of the t-shirts Ghost brought, a plain black one that's soft and hangs to mid-thigh. No bra because mine is still attached to the ruined wedding dress and the ones he brought are either too big or too small.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and almost laugh. I look exactly like what I am, a woman who just ran from her wedding, borrowed clothes hanging off her frame, hair a mess, bruise on her jaw, eyes red from crying.
Not sexy. Not desirable. Just broken. But Ryan didn't look at me like I was broken. He looked at me like I was strong for running. Like I was brave for leaving. Like I mattered.
I leave the room before I can second-guess myself. Room 312 is just down the hall like he said. I stand in front of the door for thirty seconds, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
This is probably stupid. He probably wants to be alone. Probably thinks he's done enough for one night.
But I knock anyway. Three times, like he taught me.
There's a pause. Then footsteps. The door opens and Ryan is standing there in jeans and nothing else, his chest bare and decorated with tattoos I didn't know were there.
Holy fuck.
Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that I want to trace with my tongue. More tattoos than I can count in the two seconds before I force my eyes back to his face.
"Savannah?" His voice is rough, concerned. "You okay? Something happen?"
"I'm fine. I just..." I take a breath. "I don't want to be alone. Can I... can I stay with you for a while? Just to talk or just to... I don't know. I'm sorry. This is stupid. You've already done so much—"
"It's not stupid." He steps back, opening the door wider. "Come in."
I walk into his room. It's identical to mine. Same layout, same generic furniture, same view of the Strip. But it smells like him, that combination of leather and something clean I noticed when he was carrying me.
He closes the door but doesn't lock it. Keeps his distance, which I'm grateful for because if he got too close right now I might do something stupid.
"You want to sit?" he asks, gesturing to the bed.
