Chapter 6
Knox
This is stupid.
I'm sitting in an apartment complex parking lot on my bike like some kind of stalker, watching the entrance to building C like Toby might materialize if I stare hard enough. It's been twenty minutes. Maybe longer. Any reasonable person would have left by now.
But I can't stop thinking about Robin's hands in Toby's hair. The casual way he touched him, over and over, like he had every right. The way he fixed Toby's collar. The way he called him our Toby.
Our.
My lion has been pacing since we left the garage. Restless, agitated, replaying every moment of Robin's performance on a loop. Because that's what it was—a performance. I could smell the satisfaction rolling off him every time I tensed. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Doesn't make it easier.
I should leave. Toby's not even here. He's at work, doing whatever librarians do. He won't be home for hours, probably, and I'm just sitting here like an idiot, breathing in exhaust fumes and thinking about a human I barely know.
A human who smells like sunshine and wears cardigans with cartoon animals and walked two miles in a storm.
A human who told me my eyes were pretty.
I'm going to leave. Right now. I'm going to start this bike and drive back to the club and pretend this never happened.
A silver Prius pulls into the lot.
It's well-maintained, practical. The driver is struggling with something in the passenger seat, reaching across, and even from here I can see the glasses sliding down his nose.
Toby.
He climbs out with multiple grocery bags looped over his arms, balancing precariously as he tries to grab more from the back seat. His hair is slightly mussed, probably from a long day, and he looks tired.
He gets three bags on one arm, reaches for a fourth, and that's when he notices me.
His eyes go wide behind those glasses. The bag he's reaching for slips, and he catches it awkwardly against his chest, nearly dropping two others in the process.
"Knox?"
"Hey."
"What are you—is everything okay?" He's clutching the groceries like a shield, confusion written all over his face. "Are the tarts okay? Did Robin poison someone? Oh god, he didn't label something with nuts properly, did he? He's usually so careful but sometimes he forgets—"
"The tarts are fine."
"Then why are you—" He stops, seems to realize he's standing in a parking lot interrogating me while juggling groceries. "Sorry. Hi. I just—this is unexpected."
I swing off the bike, moving toward him. "Need help?"
"I—what?"
I don't wait for permission. I'm already taking bags from him, my fingers brushing his as I lift the weight off his arms. He makes a small sound—surprise, maybe, or relief—and lets me.
"Groceries," I say, like it needs explaining. "You have too many."
"Oh." He blinks at me, adjusting his grip on the remaining bags. "Okay. Thanks?"
He leads the way to the building, and I follow, carrying enough groceries for a small army. Vegetables, mostly. Some kind of fancy sauce. The good bread from that bakery on Fifth.
"Shopping for the week," he explains, unnecessary. "Robin does the fancy stuff—the baking, the complicated recipes—but I handle regular food. He'd live on croissants and experimental foam if I let him."
"Foam?"
"Culinary school thing. Don't ask." He's unlocking the building door now, holding it open with his hip so I can pass through. "We're on the third floor. Sorry, no elevator."
The stairwell is narrow, and Toby's scent fills it—that warm sweetness I can't get out of my head, mixed with something that must be the library. Paper and ink and old books. Every breath I take makes my lion rumble with satisfaction.
I follow him up the stairs, trying not to notice how his ass looks in those jeans. Failing completely. They're not the rain-soaked khakis from the other night—these actually fit, hugging his thighs, and I have to drag my eyes away before he catches me staring.
"So," he says, slightly breathless from the climb. "Do you make a habit of waiting in parking lots for people?"
"No."
"Just me, then?"
"Just you."
He glances back at me, something unreadable in his expression, then turns away before I can figure out what it means.
Third floor. He stops at a door marked 3C and fumbles for his keys.
"Robin?" he calls out as he unlocks it, pushing the door open. "I thought you'd be gone by—don't be naked!"
"Too late!" comes Robin's voice from inside.
We walk in to find Robin in the kitchen wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, drinking directly from an orange juice carton.
His hair is wet, skin still damp, and he looks like he just stepped out of a magazine shoot—if the magazine was specifically designed to make me want to commit homicide.
"Robin! I thought you were going out with Tyler!"
"He pushed it to later. Something about a work thing." Robin sets down the orange juice and turns fully to face us. The towel shifts dangerously low. "I'm not naked, by the way. I'm wearing a towel. There's a difference."
His eyes land on me, and his face lights up with unholy glee.
"Oh. Hi Knox."
"Yes, Knox is here. Robin, pants. Please."
"Can't." Robin doesn't look even slightly apologetic.
"Everything's in the laundry. Toby, you said I could borrow your towel—thank you, you're an angel.
" He blows Toby a kiss, then looks directly at me.
"The hot water in my bathroom is broken.
Again. Landlord says next week, maybe. Thankfully we got an apartment with two bathrooms."
I set the groceries on the counter with more force than necessary. The bottles inside clink together.
"Knox helped with groceries," Toby says, already unpacking bags, apparently oblivious to the tension crackling through the room. "Wasn't that nice?"
"So nice," Robin agrees. His eyes haven't left my face. "Very gentlemanly. Very... protective."
I don't respond. Can't, really, because he's standing there basically naked in and my lion wants to throw him out the window. The third-story window. Onto the concrete below.
"I'm making stir fry," Toby announces, pulling vegetables out of bags and arranging them on the counter. "Knox, do you want to stay? There's always too much."
Robin stretches, arms above his head, and the towel slips another inch. "I should get dressed. Unless you prefer me like this?"
The last part is directed at me, accompanied by a smirk that makes it very clear he knows exactly what he's doing.
"Robin." Toby throws a dish towel at him. "Stop terrorizing my—Knox. Stop terrorizing Knox."
My Knox. He almost said it. My lion latches onto those two words and won't let go.
"I'm not terrorizing. I'm being hospitable." But Robin finally—finally—wanders off down the hall, calling back over his shoulder: "Your purple hoodie is mine now, Tobes!"
"It's been mine for three years," Toby mutters, not quite under his breath. He's pulling out a cutting board now, finding a knife in a drawer. "He steals all my comfortable clothes. Says I have better taste in loungewear."
The apartment is small but comfortable. Lived-in, in a way that speaks to years of accumulated stuff—books everywhere, mismatched furniture, art prints taped to the walls. It smells like Toby and Robin and something floral, probably air freshener. Like home.
Like something I want.
"You don't have to stay," Toby says, not looking at me. He's arranging vegetables on the cutting board, movements precise. "I know this is weird. You showing up and me just... forcing dinner on you."
"You're not forcing anything."
"Okay, but—" He turns, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. Something careful. "Why are you here?"
Good question. I don't have a good answer that isn't I want to murder your roommate for touching you or my lion has decided you're mine and I can't seem to make it stop.
"Wanted to make sure you got home safe," I say instead.
"It's six in the evening."
"This city's dangerous."
"I live in the suburbs." But he's smiling now, small and pleased, and something in my chest loosens. "Stay for dinner?"
"Yeah."
Robin reappears in nice black jeans and Toby's purple hoodie, still towel-drying his hair. He looks comfortable and domestic and infuriatingly at home in Toby's clothes.
"So Knox," he says, hopping up to sit on the counter, deliberately in Toby's way. "Tell me about your pride. Are they all as..." He gestures vaguely at me. "Intense?"
"Robin," Toby warns.
"What? I'm curious! It's not every day your best friend gets rescued by a motorcycle club of lion shifters." He grins. "Very sexy."
"Everything is not—"
"Do you have a mate?" Robin asks me directly.
The knife slips.
Toby curses, yanking his hand back, and I see red bloom on his finger.
I'm there before I consciously decide to move, taking his hand in mine, tilting it toward the light to assess the damage. It's barely a nick—a shallow cut across the pad of his index finger—but there's blood, and my lion does not like Toby bleeding.
"Let me see."
"It's fine, just—"
"First aid kit?"
"Bathroom," Robin says, and his voice has lost all its teasing edge. "I'll get it."
He disappears. I'm still holding Toby's hand, cradling it probably too carefully for such a minor injury. His pulse is quick under my fingers. Rabbit-fast.
"I'm okay," he says softly. "Just clumsy."
"You were tired."
Robin returns with a first aid kit, and I bandage Toby's finger with more attention than it strictly needs.
Clean the cut, apply antiseptic, wrap it carefully in a Band-Aid.
My hands are steady, but my lion is still rumbling, still agitated, still focused on the tiny spot of blood on the cutting board like it's a personal offense.
"I'll finish cutting," Robin announces, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "You two go sit. Relax. Bond. Whatever."
Toby leads me to the living room.
It's exactly what I would have expected—overflowing bookshelves lining every available wall, paperbacks and hardcovers crammed in with no apparent organization.
Mismatched furniture that somehow works together, a couch with too many throw pillows, a reading chair with a lamp positioned perfectly beside it.
Stacks of books on the coffee table, on the floor beside the couch, on the windowsill.
"Sorry about Robin," Toby says, curling into a corner of the couch and tucking his feet under him. "He has no boundaries."
"You need someone to take care of you."
It comes out more intense than I intended. Toby's cheeks go pink.
"I do okay."
"Three hours of sleep. Forgetting to eat. Walking two miles in a storm instead of calling for help."
"My phone was dead. That wasn't—"
"You need taking care of," I repeat.
He stares at me, lips parted, and I can hear his heart rate pick up. Thudding in his chest like it's trying to escape.
"Dinner!" Robin calls from the kitchen. "Come get it while it's hot!"
Toby jumps up like he's been shocked, practically fleeing toward the kitchen. I follow more slowly, watching Robin watch us with knowing eyes.
Dinner is surprisingly comfortable. The stir fry is good—better than I expected, vegetables crisp and sauce flavorful—and Robin keeps up a steady stream of conversation that doesn't require much from me.
He tells embarrassing stories about Toby in college: the time he got so absorbed in a book he walked into a fountain, the time he accidentally joined a protest because he was following someone while reading and didn't notice where they were going.
Toby throws vegetable pieces at him. Robin catches them in his mouth, grinning.
And I watch them interact—the easy rhythm of their bickering, the way they move around each other without thinking—and I realize, with relief that makes me angry at myself, that they're completely platonic.
The touches, the closeness, the shared clothes and inside jokes—it's all friendship. Deep, important friendship, the kind that comes from years of knowing someone. But nothing more.
Robin doesn't look at Toby the way I do. Doesn't track his movements across the room. Doesn't lean in when he speaks, hungry for every word.
I'm the only one doing that.
Robin's phone buzzes halfway through the meal. He checks it and grins, a different kind of smile than the one he's been wearing all evening—softer, more genuine.
"Oh, would you look at that. Tyler is ready to go out. Work thing is finally over. And he wants me."
"It's Thursday," Toby says. "You have that birthday cake order tomorrow."
"Which is already done and you know it." Robin stands, grabbing his keys from the counter. "I'll be back late. Or not at all. Don't wait up."
He catches my eye as he passes, and for a moment his expression is serious.
Hurt him and I'll end you.
Then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and suddenly we're alone.
The apartment feels different without Robin's energy filling it. Quieter. More intimate. I can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of traffic outside, Toby's slightly elevated breathing.
"More?" He gestures at my empty plate.
"I'm good."
"Right. Okay." He starts collecting dishes, nervous energy radiating off him in waves. "You probably need to go too. Back to the club or home or—"
"Toby."
He stops.
"Sit."
"The dishes—"
"Can wait."
He sits back down, perching on the edge of his chair, fidgeting with the edge of his cardigan. One of the cartoon carrots is winking at me. It's ridiculous. He's ridiculous.
I should go. This was already more than I planned—helping with groceries, dinner, Robin's interrogation, this quiet domesticity that makes my lion want to curl up and stay forever. I should leave before this gets more complicated, before I do something I can't take back.
"Thanks for dinner," I say, standing.
"Oh." Disappointment flickers across his face. "Yeah, of course. Thanks for helping with the groceries."
He stands too, walking me to the door. The hallway is narrow, and we're too close, and I can smell him—that warm sweetness, stronger now, mixed with soy sauce and sesame oil and something uniquely him.
We're at the door. I should leave. He's looking up at me through those glasses, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and I should definitely leave.
"Knox?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you—" He stops, takes a breath like he's steeling himself. "Never mind. It's nothing."
"What?"
"Just..." Another breath. "Would you maybe want to stay for coffee? Or tea? I have terrible instant coffee but Robin made brownies yesterday and they're actually amazing."
I should say no. I should walk out this door and go back to the club and put some distance between us before my lion does something stupid like claim him right here in this narrow hallway.
"Coffee sounds good," I hear myself say.
His smile is worth whatever hell I'm about to put myself through.