Chapter 7 — Francis
I wake up on Sunday to Knox already awake beside me, his hand tracing lazy patterns on my hip under the sheet.
The room is bright, sun coming through curtains he probably hasn't washed in years.
My mouth tastes like morning and my body aches in places that remind me exactly what we did yesterday.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"Almost nine."
We slept twelve hours. I can't remember the last time I slept that long without waking up multiple times to check my phone or use the bathroom or stare at the ceiling worrying about things I can't control.
Knox's hand slides up my side to cup my breast, thumb brushing my nipple. I feel my body respond immediately, heat pooling low in my stomach.
"Again?" I ask.
"If you want."
I roll to face him and his mouth finds mine, morning breath and all.
The kiss is slow, unhurried, the kind that happens when you have nowhere to be and nothing to prove.
His hand stays on my breast, kneading gently, while my hand slides down his stomach to find him already hard.
I reach between us and wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly. He makes a low sound in his chest and his hips push into my grip.
He rolls me onto my back and settles between my legs. No urgency this time, no desperation. Just the slow slide of him pushing into me while I'm still soft and warm from sleep.
The stretch is easier now, my body remembering him from yesterday, opening to let him in.
When he's fully seated he stops and just looks at me. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just looking."
"At what?"
"You. Here. In my bed where you're supposed to be."
He starts to move, long slow thrusts that make me feel every inch of him.
I wrap my legs around his waist and let myself just feel it. Feel the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. Feel the way my body yields to his. Feel the morning light on my skin and his hands on my hips and the reality of being forty years old and wanted like this.
Not despite my body. Because of it.
His hand slides up my side to cup my breast, kneading the soft flesh. When his thumb circles my nipple I arch into the touch and he leans down to take it in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me gasp.
"Knox."
"I know. I've got you."
He keeps that same slow rhythm, building pressure gradually instead of rushing toward the end.
My hands slide down his back, feeling the muscles move under his skin, feeling the way he's moving to protect his wounded side.
When I come it's slow and rolling, building from deep inside and spreading out through my whole body.
I clench around him and he groans, driving deeper, chasing his own release.
He follows a moment later, burying his face in my neck and holding me tight while he pulses inside me.
We stay tangled together afterward, neither of us in a hurry to move.
"Stay," he says.
"I've been here one night."
"So stay another night. And another. Until it stops making sense to have two houses."
"Knox!"
"What?"
"We've been together for three days." I laugh.
"Four, if you count Thursday."
"I don't think Thursday counts. We barely spoke."
"I was thinking about you the entire day. That counts."
I prop myself up on my elbow to look at him. He's serious, jaw set in that way that means he's already decided something and is waiting for me to catch up.
"You want me to move in with you," I say.
"Yeah."
"After four days."
"We've known each other twenty years. We're just making up for lost time."
"That's not how this works."
"Says who?"
I don't have a good answer for that.
Says conventional wisdom, maybe. Says the part of me that spent six years with Ben making measured decisions about when to buy furniture together and when to consider marriage and when to admit it wasn't working.
Knox and I have skipped every step and gone straight to the center of something that should probably scare me more than it does.
"I need to keep the rental until the lease is up," I say. "That's four months. I can't just break it without penalty."
"So keep it. Use it for storage or whatever. But sleep here."
"What about my dad? He's three doors down. He'll notice I'm never at my place."
"So tell him. Or don't. He's a grown man, he can handle you having a boyfriend."
The word boyfriend sounds wrong coming out of Knox's mouth. Too young, too casual for what we actually are.
"What do we call this?" I ask. "We're too old for boyfriend and girlfriend."
"Partner."
"That sounds like a business arrangement."
"Lover, then."
"That sounds like a soap opera."
He pulls me down to kiss me, effectively ending the conversation. When he lets me up for air he says, "Call it whatever you want. You're mine and I'm yours. That's all that matters."
It should feel possessive in a way that triggers every independence instinct I've built over the last seventeen years.
Instead it just feels true.
We get up eventually because staying in bed all day isn't realistic when I have a father three doors down who's probably wondering where I am.
I shower at Knox's house, using his soap that smells like him, then pull on yesterday's clothes because all my things are still next door.
"I need to go see Dad," I say. "Make sure he's okay."
"Want me to come?"
"Not yet. Let me talk to him first. Prepare him."
"For what?"
"For you. For the fact that I'm with someone. For the motorcycle club thing."
Knox's expression doesn't change but I see something tighten around his eyes. "You embarrassed?"
"No. Just realistic. My dad's been sick for six months and I haven't been here to help him. Now I show up and within four days I'm sleeping with the guy next door who happens to be in a motorcycle club. That's a lot to process."
"Fair enough."
I kiss him goodbye and walk back to my rental to change clothes.
The house feels strange after spending the night at Knox's. Too empty, too quiet, like I've already started thinking of the other place as home.
I change into clean jeans and a loose green blouse, pull my hair into a ponytail, and walk the three houses to Dad's.
He's on the porch when I arrive, sitting in the chair he's had since before Mom died.
His hands are shaking worse than they were Friday, trembling visibly even when he rests them on the armrests.
"Morning, Frannie."
"Morning, Dad."
I sit in the chair beside him and we look out at the street together.
"You settling in okay?" Dad asks.
"Yeah. The rental's fine. AC doesn't work great but it's manageable."
"Is Knox next door treating you all right?"
My stomach clenches. "You knew he was there when you told me about the rental."
"Figured you'd find out soon enough."
"Did you think we'd get back together?"
Dad's quiet for a moment. The tremor in his hands gets worse and he tucks them under his thighs, trying to hide it.
"Hoped, maybe," he says. "That boy loved you something fierce when you were young. Hurt like hell when you left but he never said a bad word about you. Never blamed you for going. I always thought that said something about his character."
"We're together now."
Dad nods like this isn't news. "Figured. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"Same one your mother had. Like you've made up your mind about something and the rest of us better just adjust."
I smile despite myself. "He's in a motorcycle club, Dad. Vigil MC. You know them?"
"Everyone knows them. They keep Bloomfield safe. Had some trouble lately with another club but they handle their business."
"Handling their business means people die."
Dad looks at me then, really looks, and I see the man who raised me alone after Mom's heart gave out in the garden. The man who taught me to change a tire and balance a checkbook and stand up for myself even when it was hard.
"You know what you're getting into?" he asks.
"I think so."
"And you're doing it anyway?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'm not going to lecture you. You're forty years old, Francis.
You don't need my permission. But I'll say this: that boy's been alone since you left.
Watched him over the years, working on that house, keeping to himself.
If you're with him now, you better mean it.
Don't go breaking his heart again just because you're scared of what it costs. "
The words hit harder than I expected. "I'm not going to break his heart."
"Good. Because he's a good man and he deserves someone who stays."
We sit in silence for a while. I watch his hands shake, watch him try to control it and fail. The Parkinson's is progressing faster than the doctors predicted. Six months ago he could hold a coffee cup without spilling. Now he can barely get it to his mouth.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Fine."
"Dad."
"I'm managing, Frannie. Some days are better than others. Today's not a good day but it's not the worst either."
I recognize the deflection. He doesn't want to talk about his declining health, doesn't want to admit that he's scared or struggling or facing mortality in real time.
So I let it go for now and make a mental note to check his pill organizer later when he's not watching.
"Bring him by for dinner tonight. I'll make something."
"Dad, you don't have to cook."
"I can still cook, Francis. My hands shake, they don't stop working entirely."
There's enough pride in his voice that I know arguing will only make it worse.
"Okay. What time?"
"Six. Tell him to bring beer if he drinks. I'm out."
I leave Dad on the porch and walk back to Knox's house.
He's in the garage working on his bike even though it doesn't need work. I recognize the pattern from yesterday, from years ago, from every time he needs to think and doesn't want to sit still.
"My dad wants to have dinner," I say.
Knox looks up from the engine. "When?"
"Tonight. Six."
"Okay."
"He said to bring beer."
"That I can do."
Knox sets down the wrench and stands, wiping his hands on a rag. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt with grease stains, hair falling in his eyes.
He looks tired in a way that goes beyond lack of sleep.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Just thinking about Tuesday."
"The raid."
"Yeah."