He jerks his chin toward the truck behind us. "Keys are yours when you need them."
My jaw drops. "Knox—"
"Before you argue," he cuts in, raising a brow, "you're gonna need to get around town. Groceries, appointments, whatever you want. I'm not gonna make you wait on me to drive you."
"That's… it's too much," I murmur. "I don't even have clothes. Or, hell, shampoo that isn't hotel-size."
"Then we'll go shopping after court. Clothes, toiletries. Handled." He grips my chin gently, so I have to look at him. "I don't do anything I don't want to do. I choose this. Got it?"
I nod. "Got it."
"Good." He kisses my forehead, and my chest cracks open. "Come inside. Tour time."
The house smells of cedar and detergent. It's clean, simple, lived in. He kicks the door shut behind us, drops his keys in a ceramic bowl that looks suspiciously like Maggie bought it and forced it on him, then leads me forward.
The living room opens wide. It has a dark couch, low coffee table, a TV, and not much else. A single framed picture is on the mantle: Knox standing with Malachi, East, Nash, James. All in cuts, all scowling except East, who's flipping off the camera.
"Wow," I murmur. "Bachelor chic."
He snorts. "Translation: looks like a man lives here."
"It does."
"You'll fix that," he says casually. "I can feel it already."
I freeze. "Fix?"
"Throw pillows. Blankets. Weird candles that smell like desserts. Plants I'll forget to water. Whatever you want." He shrugs. "The house could use it."
"You want me to decorate your house?"
"Yeah," he says, then looks away, as if the words slipped out. "I want your shit here. I want you here." He nudges me down the hall. "C'mon."
The first room is all tools and unfinished projects. The second is a guest room; it's unused, neutral, untouched. I stand in the doorway, staring at the bed, then at him. He watches me, hands in his pockets, shoulders filling the frame.
"You want this room?" he asks.
The bed looks empty and quiet. Like Chicago.
"I… don't know," I whisper. He tilts his head. Waits. "I don't want to be alone."
His whole face changes. "Then you're not." He brushes his knuckles down my arm. "You're not alone tonight, Sloane. Not unless you ask to be."
My throat tightens. He touches my nape, guiding me down the hall to the last room. His room. There's a big bed, black comforter, plain walls, a nightstand with a gun safe tucked beside it. A lamp, laundry basket, and a framed map of old route lines. A dresser that looks mostly bare.
Every surface is hard and plain. Then there's Knox in the doorway, watching me look.
"This is mine," he says quietly. "And yours, if you want it." I do. My hand finds the doorframe and grips. He brushes a thumb over my lower lip. His jaw set, eyes steady on mine as though he's already decided and is just waiting for me to arrive. "Let's get you settled," he tells me.
We end up on the couch instead. Maggie's chili reheated, a bottle of water between my knees, a throw blanket folded over the armrest, Knox beside me with an arm thrown over the back. MMA fights on TV thud through the room, commentators turned low enough to blur. The rhythm of it lulls me down by degrees.
At some point, I lean back. Then he pulls me closer. My head rests on his chest, and his hand slides into my hair, steady strokes that make my bones loosen. I drift. The world narrows to warmth and his heartbeat steady under my ear.
Knocking jolts me awake. I sit up fast, hair sticking to my cheek. Knox's hand catches my hip before I roll off the couch.
"It's okay," he murmurs. "Just a knock." His hair's a little mussed. Shirt wrinkled. He dozed too, but stayed alert the whole time.
The knocking comes again brisk and familiar.