Chapter Six #2
I watched him cross the room, every step measured, and thought about how easy it would be to steer him with a hand on the back of his neck. I wanted to test how far he’d let me go. I wanted to see if he’d let me pin him against the wall and bite down until he begged.
Instead, I poured him a bowl of oatmeal, set it on the table with a spoon, and said, “Eat.”
He did. He sat in the chair, picked up the spoon, and ate every bite without a word, eyes fixed on the table. I sat across from him, not eating, just watching the tension ease out of his shoulders.
When he finished, I took the bowl, rinsed it, and set it in the dishwasher. I kept my movements slow, deliberate, making sure he saw every part of it.
I turned and leaned against the counter. “You want to shower?”
He looked up, surprised. “You want me to?”
I nodded. “You’ll feel better. I’ll set a towel out. But don’t lock the door, in case you get light-headed.”
He stared at me for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
He disappeared down the hall, and I heard the water kick on.
I counted the seconds in my head, counting how long it would take before he called for help, or needed me to steady him.
He didn’t. He came out twenty minutes later, hair slicked back, droplets running down his neck and making the collar of the shirt I’d given him cling to his skin. He looked better.
But also, somehow, more breakable.
He lingered in the doorway. “You got any art supplies?”
I nodded toward the living room. “Top drawer of the sideboard. Pencils and paper.”
He went, found them, and sat cross-legged on the floor in the sunlight, the sketchbook propped on his knee. He started to draw, head bent, every muscle in his back loose. I watched him from the kitchen, drinking my coffee, letting the moment stretch.
Every so often, I’d glance over and see his eyes flick up, searching for me. When he caught me looking, he’d hold my gaze for a breath, then drop it, like he wanted to be watched, but didn’t know how to ask.
I got up, walked over, and stood behind him. “What are you working on?”
He turned the page, showed me a sketch of the shop from memory: the bikes, the workbenches, my toolbox in the background. It was sharp, angry, lines slashed hard, but it looked exactly right.
“Looks good,” I said, hand on the back of his neck before I knew what I was doing.
He tensed under my touch, but didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned into it, just a little, like it cost him everything not to.
I squeezed, then let go. “You need anything else?”
He shook his head, then: “You always this… in charge?”
I knelt beside him, made him meet my eyes. “You always this ready to listen?”
He grinned, crooked and slow. “Only when it’s worth it.”
I reached up, brushed his hair out of his eyes. “You’re stubborn as hell,” I told him honestly, “but you like it when someone tells you what to do.”
He held my gaze, jaw set. “Yeah. I guess I do.”
I kept my hand on the back of his head, thumb stroking the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. His eyelids fluttered, breath going shallow.
I leaned in. “Then you’ll stay here until I say otherwise. You hear me?”
He swallowed, and for a second I thought he’d break, but he only nodded. “Yeah. I hear you.”
I sat back, the urge to push further nearly too much. But then I heard the sound of a truck outside, the familiar cough of an old diesel. I stood, instantly on edge.
Bo must’ve heard it too, because his shoulders went stiff. “That’s—”
“Knox,” I said, already walking to the window. I watched as the battered Ford rolled into the drive, dust haloing around the wheels. I recognized the way Knox parked, two wheels up on the curb like he was daring someone to call him on it.
I turned to Bo, the order out of my mouth before I could check it. “Stay here. Don’t move until I get back.”
He nodded, but this time there was no sass, no challenge. “Yes, sir,” he said, soft but clear.
The words hit me hard. I felt the pulse in my throat, my hands curling into fists. I wanted to go back, drag him to his knees, and show him exactly what those two words did to me. But the doorbell rang, slicing the moment in half.
I grabbed the flannel off the chair, shrugged it on, and went down the stairs. Knox was at the door, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, jaw clenched so hard the muscles looked ready to snap.
He didn’t bother with hello. “He up there?”
I nodded. “Sleeping. Or pretending to.”
Knox eyed me, suspicion burning in every line of his face. “You get him to take the meds?”
“Yeah. And breakfast. He’s fine, Knox.”
Knox looked past me, scanning the entryway. “I want to see him.”
I put myself between him and the stairs. “Give him some time. He had a rough night.”
Knox snorted. “Every night’s a rough night with him.” He let the bag drop, then scrubbed a hand over his beard. “You think he’s gonna stay this time?”
I shrugged. “He’s staying as long as I say.”
He eyed me, caught the edge in my voice, and his mouth curled in a smirk. “That so.”
I held his gaze. “You got a problem with that?”
Knox shook his head, but the air was thick with challenge. “Just don’t break him more than he already is.”
I let him stand there, sizing me up, and finally he broke first. “Tell him I’ll call tomorrow. See if he wants to come out to the farm.”
“I will.”
Knox nodded once, sharp, then turned on his heel and walked out. He left the bag behind, the door swinging shut with a hiss of cold air. I stood in the hall, letting the silence settle. My hands were shaking, just a little. I flexed them, forced the adrenaline back under my skin.
When I heard the rumble of Knox’s truck pulling away, I climbed the stairs two at a time, heart pounding in my throat.
Upstairs, Bo hadn’t moved. He sat on the floor where I’d left him, pencil in hand, the light from the window streaking his bare arms with gold. He looked up when I came in, eyes wide, searching my face for something.
I closed the door, locked it, and leaned back against the wall. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“You handled him?” Bo asked, voice soft.
I nodded. “He brought you clothes.”
Bo made a face. “Bet they all smell like fabric softener and judgment.”
I crossed the room and squatted down beside him. The sketchbook was in his lap, page half-filled with lines and smudges. I took it from his hands, set it aside, and cupped his chin in my palm.
“You didn’t move,” I said.
He shook his head, a tiny motion against my fingers. “You told me to stay.”
My thumb drifted over the edge of his jaw, rough with the start of a beard. “You like it when I tell you what to do.”
He blinked, then nodded, almost shy. “I do.”
I felt the air between us crackle, every nerve ending stretched tight. “If I told you to get on your knees right now, would you do it?”
His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I would.”
I let my hand slide to the back of his neck, drew him closer until our foreheads touched. “You don’t have to run anymore, Bo. I want you here.”
He let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into my shirt. “I want to stay.”
I held him there, both of us breathing hard, the rest of the world outside and irrelevant. “Good boy,” I said again, and this time, he smiled like it hurt.
I kept him there, right where he belonged, and promised myself I’d never let go.