Chapter 4 — Knox #2
It's small, barely room for both of us. She pulls out a first aid kit from under the sink, sets it on the counter.
"Shirt off," she says.
I pull it over my head. The movement makes the wound pull, fresh blood welling up along the graze. I drop the shirt on the floor and lean against the sink while she opens the kit.
She's close enough now that I can smell her. That same clean scent from before, soap and skin and something underneath that's just her. Her hands are steady when she peels back the gauze Tate applied, exposing the wound.
"This needs stitches," she says.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. It's still bleeding."
"Francis."
"Do you want me to call someone? A doctor?"
"No."
She looks up at me and we're inches apart in this tiny bathroom. Her eyes are brown, darker than I remember. There are lines at the corners that weren't there before. Her face is fuller, softer, and I want to touch it so badly my hands shake with the restraint.
"Then let me clean it," she says.
She works cautiously, wiping away the blood with antiseptic that burns like hell.
I don't move. Just watch her face as she concentrates, the way her teeth catch her bottom lip when she's focused.
Her hands are gentle but sure.
When she's finished cleaning it she applies fresh gauze, taping it in place with steady fingers.
The whole time I'm watching the way her tank top clings to her breasts, the way her stomach rounds softly under the fabric. The way her thighs press together when she shifts her weight.
I want her.
Want to pull her against me and feel her soft body against mine. Want to know if she still makes that sound in the back of her throat when she's aroused. Want to stop pretending I don't think about her every time I'm alone.
"Done," she says, stepping back.
But she doesn't step far enough. We're still too close, still in each other's space in a bathroom that barely holds one person comfortably.
"I thought you were dead," she says.
Her voice cracks on the last word. I see her throat move when she swallows, see her hands tremble before she folds them across her chest.
"I heard the gunfire and you were gone and I thought someone had killed you. I thought I'd have to identify your body. I thought—"
I kiss her.
I pull her against me and my mouth finds hers and she makes that sound, that same fucking sound I've been remembering for seventeen years.
Her hands come up to my chest, fingers pressing into my bare skin, and I'm lost.
She tastes like toothpaste and fear. Her body is soft everywhere mine is hard, her curves pressing into me in a way that makes my brain shut down and my body take over.
I get my hands on her hips, feel the width of them under my palms, and pull her tighter.
The wound pulls. Pain shoots through my side sharp enough to make me gasp.
She breaks the kiss and steps back, breathing hard.
"You're bleeding again," she says.
I look down. Fresh blood is seeping through the gauze. I don't care.
We stand there looking at each other in the harsh bathroom light. Her mouth is red from my kiss, her breathing uneven. I can see her pulse in her throat, fast and hard.
"Why did you do that?" she asks.
"Because I wanted to."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only one that matters."
She shakes her head but she doesn't move away. Just stands there with her arms crossed over her chest, hair falling in her face, looking at me like she's trying to solve a problem that doesn't have a solution.
"Perry died alone," I say. "No one waiting for him. No one who noticed he was gone."
"I know. You told me."
"I've been alone for years. By choice. I told myself it was what I wanted."
"Was it?"
"I thought so. Until you came back."
She closes her eyes. When she opens them again they're bright with something I can't name.
"I'm terrified," she says. "That you'll get killed. That I'll build my life around you and you'll die and I'll have to start over. Again."
"I know."
"I can't do it, Knox. I can't be the person who waits and worries and makes herself smaller so you have room to be who you need to be. I already did that. I won't do it again."
"I'm not asking you to do that."
"Then what are you asking?"
"For a chance. To try. To not spend the rest of my life wondering what would've happened if I'd been brave enough to want something."
Her breath catches. She uncrosses her arms and takes a step closer, then another, until we're back in each other's space.
"I don't know if I can do this," she says.
"Neither do I."
"We're older, we should know better."
"Yeah."
"This is a terrible idea."
"Probably..."
She reaches up and touches my face. Her palm is cool against my jaw, her thumb brushing my cheekbone.
I close my eyes and let myself feel it, the simple reality of her touching me.
When I open my eyes she's crying. Silent tears running down her face.
"I never stopped," she whispers. "Wanting you. I tried. God, I tried. But I never did."
I kiss her again. Softer this time, tasting the salt of her tears.
She kisses me back like she's afraid I'll disappear if she doesn't hold on tight enough.
When we finally break apart the sun is coming through the window and the bathroom is warm and we're both breathing hard.
"Stay," she says.
"Okay."
She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom. We lie down on top of the covers, facing each other.
Her hand rests on my ribs just below the wound. Mine rests on her hip.
We don't talk. Just breathe together while the light gets brighter and the day starts without us.
I haven't slept next to someone in over a decade. Haven't wanted to. But lying here with Francis, feeling her breathing even out as she falls asleep, I realize this is what I've been missing.
Not just sex. Not just company.
This. The specific weight of someone who matters, someone you'd die protecting, someone you want to wake up next to even when you're too tired to keep your eyes open.
I fall asleep with my hand on her hip and wake up two hours later with her body pressed against mine and the wound throbbing under the gauze.
Worth it.