The Part Where I Definitely Don’t Climb on Him
THE PART WHERE I DEFINITELY DON’T CLIMB ON HIM
LARK
I can’t sleep.
The bed is comfortable. Too comfortable. The sheets are soft, the pillow smells faintly like laundry detergent and woodsmoke, and the blanket is warm enough that I should be snoring by now.
But my brain?
My brain is a bookshelf after an earthquake.
I flip onto my back and stare at the shadowed ceiling.
It’s too quiet.
No traffic noise. No sirens. No distant hum of city life. Just crickets. The occasional hoot of an owl. The soft creak of old wood settling as the cabin exhales around us.
And underneath it all—like a bassline—Knight’s breathing from the other room.
I shouldn’t be able to hear it.
But I do.
Because I’m listening for it.
I roll onto my side and hug the pillow, pressing my cheek into it.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve had a crush on Knight Hayes for… what, a decade? Longer? I was fourteen the first time he came over to the house with Gage—quiet, tall, wearing an oversized hoodie and an expression like life had already kicked him in the teeth.
I remember the way he’d sit at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, watching whatever game Gage put on TV but not really seeing it. How he’d relax only when I joked with him or stole his fries or nudged his arm and demanded he help me hack a stupid online game.
Back then, he was a mystery with messy hair and an adorable dimple.
Now?
He’s a weapon.
Tightly coiled, controlled, lethal in a way that has nothing to do with biceps and everything to do with the way he steps between me and danger without thinking.
“Stop thinking about him,” I mutter into the pillow.
My brain: No.
I kick free of the blanket, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and sit there for a second, toes curling against the cool wood floor.
There’s a faint light coming from the other room. A soft golden glow under the bottom of the bedroom door, along with the murmur of a low voice and the rustle of fabric.
He’s still up.
Of course he is.
Knight doesn’t sleep when there’s work to do. Or when there’s something to worry over. Or when there’s a girl in the next room whose name rhymes with shark and whose hobbies include blackmail and bat-violence.
I pad quietly to the door, crack it open, and peer out.
He’s on the couch.
Sort of.
He’s half-sitting, half-slumped, long legs taking up most of the cushions, one ankle hooked over the other.
He’s in sweats and a t-shirt now, no hoodie, and there’s a blanket tossed haphazardly over his lap like he lost a war with it.
His laptop is open on the coffee table, screen dark. The lamp beside him is on, dimmed low.
His head is tipped back, eyes closed, jaw shadowed with stubble. One forearm is draped over his eyes, the other resting along his stomach, hand curled loosely.
He looks… tired.
Not physically. I’ve seen him exhausted before, running on three hours of sleep and sheer spite.
This is different.
This is the kind of tired that comes from trying to hold the world together with duct tape and overclocked processors.
My chest aches.
I step out into the living room, the floor cool under my bare feet.
His arm tenses before I make a sound.
Of course it does.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asks, voice low and rough.
God, that voice.
I lean against the doorframe. “Shouldn’t you?”
He moves his arm away from his eyes and looks at me.
For a second, his gaze skims over me—messy hair, oversized t-shirt, sleep shorts—and something dark flickers in his expression before he reins it in.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
“Nope.” I walk closer, trying not to feel self-conscious under his stare. I’ve never been self-conscious around him before. I’ve been annoying. Loud. Ridiculous. But never… shy.
That’s new.
I blame the bounty.
And the murder cabin.
And the fact that he told me—very calmly—that he’d burn the world before he let anyone hurt me.
I stop a few feet from the couch, arms crossed. “Every time I close my eyes, my brain starts a new episode of Worst Case Scenario Theater.”
He huffs a small, humorless laugh. “Welcome to my life.”
“Any good episodes?”
“Mostly reruns.”
“Fun.”
He studies me for a beat. “I know you’re scared, but I’m not going to let anything happen to you?”
I want to say I’m not. It’s on the tip of my tongue. The old Lark answer. The one with teeth.
But he’s looking at me like he actually wants the truth.
So I give it to him.
“Just a little scared,” I admit. “I’m not scared of… them. Bad guys. Guns. Bounties. I mean, I am, but that’s not what’s keeping me up.”
His brows draw together. “Then what is?”
I swallow. “You,” I say softly.
His whole body goes still. “Me?”
“Yeah.” I tug at the hem of my tank top. “You, promising me things you can’t possibly control. You, being all… protector-y. You, being here, and on the run with me, and very much not a ghost on the periphery of my life anymore.”
He stares at me like he’s not sure whether to argue or apologize.
“I’ve seen you behind a screen for years,” I continue, words tumbling out now. “I’ve watched you move code like a knife. But this? Tonight? The warehouse, the way you moved, the way you didn’t even hesitate when you realized we were burned? That’s different.”
I take a breath.
“I spent years having a crush on the broody hacker who ignored me on Gage’s couch,” I say with a little crooked smile. “But now I’m seeing you in full knight-in-dark-hoodie mode and, uh…” I gesture loosely at my chest. “Respect levels: upgraded.”
His throat works. “Lark,” he says quietly, “you shouldn’t… put me on that kind of pedestal. I’m not—”
“A hero?” I cut in. “Yeah, yeah. You hate that word. You’re flawed. You’re morally gray. You pirate media and break into corporate servers for fun, we get it.”
A tiny ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth despite himself.
“I’m just saying,” I add, softer, “I respect the way you carry it. The weight. The responsibility. The way you looked at me tonight when you thought I might be scared. Nobody’s ever looked at me like that before.”
His gaze sharpens. “Like what?”
“Like I’m worth protecting,” I say.
Silence hums between us.
He turns his head away, staring at some point over my shoulder. “You’ve always been worth protecting,” he says eventually. “That’s kind of the problem.”
My heart does a stupid flip.
I sink to the floor beside the coffee table, sitting cross-legged, arms draped over my knees. From here, I’m level with his shoulders, close enough to feel the heat coming off his body. The blanket has slipped, exposing the long line of his thigh, the veins in his forearm.
“Then why did you spend half my adolescence pretending I didn’t exist?” I ask, trying to keep it light.
He huffs out a breath. “Because you were Gage’s catastrophically off-limits little sister. And because you were a kid, and I was…” He trails off, jaw clenching. “Not in a place where I trusted myself to want anything good.”
The answer lands with more weight than I expected.
I tilt my head. “You want things that are good now?”
His eyes meet mine.
The air shifts.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Too much.”
Heat licks at the base of my spine.
I wet my bottom lip.
His gaze drops.
Tracks the movement.
My pulse skitters.
Okay. Dangerous territory ahead. Proceed with caution. Or don’t. Caution’s overrated.
I pull one knee up to my chest and rest my chin on it. “Can I ask you something?”
He snorts. “Have you ever not?”
“Why do you keep fighting it?”
He doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what it is. “Because it’s you,” he says. “And because once I stop fighting… I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop at all.”
A shiver rolls through me that has nothing to do with the cabin chill.
There is absolutely no reason that sentence should be as hot as it is.
None.
Zero.
I shift, just a little, leaning back against the side of the couch so my shoulder brushes his leg.
It’s barely a touch.
An accident. Probably.
He goes rigid.
“Does it bother you?” I ask softly. “That I’m… here? That I pushed my way into this?”
“Yes,” he says immediately.
Ouch.
Then he adds, “And no.”
Less ouch.
He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, making it stick up in messy spikes. “You make everything harder.”
I bite back a smirk. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
“It feels like one.”
He turns his head, glowering down at me. “You don’t listen. You take unnecessary risks. You push buttons just to see what happens. You scare the hell out of me, Lark.”
The last part comes out raw.
Honest.
I blink. “I scare you?” I echo, surprised.
“Yes,” he growls. It’s absurdly hot, the way he says it.
“But why?” I press. “You’re the one with the bat-proof muscles.”
His gaze darkens. “Because one of these days… you’re going to push the wrong button. And it’s going to be my fault if I let you keep doing it.”
“Maybe I know where all the buttons are,” I say, voice low. “Maybe that’s why you’re scared.”
We stare at each other.
The lamp hums softly.
The forest sings outside.
And inside, the tension goes from a simmer to a crackling, electric boil.
I shift again, and this time I don’t pretend it’s accidental. I turn and kneel so I’m facing him, hands on the couch cushion near his hip for balance.
We’re close now.
His breath fans across my cheek.
I can see every fleck of color in his eyes, the way his pupils dilate, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster.
“Knight,” I whisper.
His hand flexes above the blanket, like he’s physically stopping himself from reaching for me. “Lark,” he says warningly.
“What if…” My voice trembles, but I push through it. “What if we didn’t fight it just once?”
His jaw clenches. “That’s not how this works,” he says. “There’s no ‘just once’ with this. With you.”
I smile faintly. “You keep saying you won’t touch me. But you keep telling me exactly how much you want to.”
His breath hitches. He drops his gaze to my mouth again, then squeezes his eyes shut like he’s trying to shut out the image. “Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?”