Chapter 6
Knox
I’m halfway through shading a koi fish on a girl’s shoulder blade when I realize the scales I just drew look exactly like a cluster of freckles.
Fuck.
“You okay?” she asks, craning her neck to look back at me.
“Great,” I say. I adjust the line before she can see where my hand was going.
The scales go back to being scales, and the fish goes back to being a fish.
I finish the piece, wrap it, run through the aftercare instructions, and she’s out the door happy.
Which is a miracle, honestly, because for the last few clients I’ve been running on pure autopilot.
One of them actually asked me twice if I was listening.
Mars hasn’t said anything yet. That just means he’s about to. He has this fun little pattern where he goes completely silent for a few days and then drops a sentence on you like a cinder block. We’re past due.
I wipe down my station, toss the used needles in the sharps container, and check my phone.
It’s been lighting up all day with messages I’m absolutely not waiting for.
The thread with Benji is right there at the top.
His latest message came through an hour ago, and I read it again even though I already have it memorized.
Benji: Stop texting me while I'm trying to work.
I sent him a photo of a flash design earlier.
A dagger with roses. Nothing to do with him, except the handle had the kind of intricate linework I knew he’d have an opinion about, because he’s a designer and he literally can’t help himself.
He responded in under a minute, then followed up with the stop texting me message.
Which he wouldn’t have needed to send if he’d actually put his phone down.
I scroll up, wincing at the gap from this morning.
He’d sent something at 9:14, and I didn’t see it until 11:47 because I was elbow-deep in ink.
When I’m in the zone, my phone might as well not exist. I go tunnel-vision on whatever’s in front of me, and the rest of the world just stops being real for a while.
Usually, by the time I surface, people have stopped waiting.
Me: You replied in forty seconds. Very convincing.
Benji: I keep my phone close for important things. You're not one of them.
Me: And yet.
Benji: I'm procrastinating. You're the equivalent of a crossword puzzle. Mildly entertaining, ultimately pointless.
Me: That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.
The thread’s been going like this for days.
It’s not the same as it was before the catfish incident.
He’s still sharp, still mean, but the mean has a rhythm to it now.
A back-and-forth that feels more like a game than a war.
He roasts me, I take it, and I throw something back that makes him reply faster than he should.
We’re both pretending this is nothing. We’re also both clearly checking our phones between every single thing we do.
Between walk-ins, I flip open my sketchbook.
The last few pages are... yeah. His face again.
The sharp jaw, the constellation of freckles, the nose ring.
I did a profile view during lunch that has more detail than anything else in the book.
I’ve drawn the line of his neck twice. I know what this looks like from the outside, but from the inside, it’s just my hand following whatever shape interests it.
The shape that interests it just happens to have been the exact same one every day for a week.
I snap the book shut and rub the back of my neck.
I’ve been doing that all week too, like there’s a knot in the muscle I can’t work out.
My body’s been completely fucked since that night in his apartment.
I’m not sick. I’m not tired. I’m just tuned to a frequency I can’t shut off.
I keep catching his scent on my skin even though I’ve showered enough times that it’s physically impossible for it to still be there.
My sleep is shit. Twice this week I walked past his apartment building on a route that makes zero geographical sense, and my legs just took me there without asking.
I’m not thinking about why. I’m just annoyed about it.
Mars picks his moment. “You’ve been useless,” he grunts, not looking up from the piercing tray he’s prepping.
“I’ve been great.”
“You put the wrong needles in the autoclave yesterday, and you drew a lily when the client asked for a lotus.”
“Those are basically the same flower.”
He just looks at me. I go back to wiping down my perfectly clean counter.
My phone buzzes. The DMs keep evolving. The first day after the apartment was pure combat—Benji testing whether I’d pretend nothing happened, me refusing to pretend.
The second day, he sent me a meme about bad KnotMe profiles that was genuinely hilarious.
I laughed out loud at work, and Mars gave me a look that could kill.
By day three, the explicit shit started creeping back in.
Not the anonymous pre-catfish sexting, but something heavier.
References to his hallway. To my mouth. To the sounds he made.
Benji: You seem very proud of yourself for someone who came in his jeans twice in one night.
Me: I notice you're counting my orgasms. Keeping track?
Benji: I keep records on all underwhelming experiences.
Me: Nothing about that night was underwhelming and you know it.
A long pause. Then:
Benji: You don't know anything about what I know.
Which would be a solid, dismissive mic-drop, except he sent it at 1:00 a.m.. Meaning he was lying in bed thinking about me at 1:00 a.m..
Fuck this. I’m tired of the circling. The texting is good—honestly, it’s the best part of my day right now, which is a thought I absolutely refuse to examine—but it’s not enough. The restlessness under my skin won’t quit.
I type the message before I can second-guess myself.
Me: You catfished me, used me, and kicked me out. Twice. If you're done with me, say it. If you can't say it, meet me somewhere tomorrow. Your pick.
The typing indicator bubbles appear. Disappear. Appear again. My pulse does a weird little stutter.
Here’s the thing I won’t admit to anyone, definitely not to myself: if he shrugs this off, if he shows up tomorrow and treats it like a casual check-in so he can walk away with a clean conscience, I’m done.
I don’t chase people who don’t want to be caught.
I’ve spent enough of my life being the guy who stays too long in rooms where nobody asked him to sit down.
Benji: [Location pin — Elm Street Park]
Benji: 5pm.
No banter. No snarky qualifier. Just the pin and the time. I put the phone facedown on the counter, pick up my sketchbook, and draw another jawline with freckles. I'm fine. I'm always fine.
My phone rings on the walk home. I’ve been dodging my mom for over a week, and the guilt finally outweighs the avoidance, so I hit accept.
“Baby, I was starting to think you’d changed your number.” Her voice is warm, but there’s that bone-deep exhaustion in it. The same exhaustion she’s carried for years. I hate how much it still makes me feel like a kid who can’t fix anything.
“Sorry, Ma. Been a busy week.”
“You’re always busy.” It’s not an accusation. Just a fact. “Your father’s got that appointment Thursday. Dr. Okafor wants to talk about the program.”
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s doing.” A heavy pause. “He’d love to see you. It’s been a while, Knox.”
“I know. I’ll come this weekend.”
“You said that last time.”
“I mean it this time.” And I think I do.
But I said that before too, and then Sunday rolled around and I found a reason not to go.
Because sitting in that house, with my dad looking hollowed out and my mom trying to hold the walls up, makes it hard to breathe.
The last time it got that heavy, I bolted. I did something I can’t undo.
I tell my mom I love her, she tells me to eat something that didn’t come from a gas station, and I hang up.
The call sits heavy on my chest for the next three blocks.
My dad in that house, my mom holding it together, and me over here slinging ink and chasing an omega, pretending I’m not the kind of guy who leaves when things get complicated.
I left them too, in a way. Not physically, but every dodged call and skipped visit is its own kind of ghosting.
When I pass Benji’s building, my boots slow down on the pavement. I look up at the third-floor window. The light is on. I stare at it for a second, jaw tight, before I force myself to keep walking.
Elm Street Park is exactly the kind of place that makes me want to turn around and leave on principle.
Green grass, a bubbling fountain, benches everywhere.
Couples doing couple shit. I’m early because my legs dragged me here before five, and I claim a bench, crossing my arms and trying to look like I don’t give a fuck.
This is it. My last real try. If he sits down and gives me the closure speech, I’ll let him.
Benji walks up the path, and my entire body goes dead still.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, and he looks fucking incredible.
I can’t explain how both of those things are true at the same time.
Black skinny jeans, beat-to-hell combat boots, a vintage band tee with a ripped collar.
The electric blue streak in his hair catches the late-afternoon sun.
He’s got eyeliner smudged around his eyes, and he walks toward me like he’s stepping into a cage match.
He sits on the other end of the bench. He leaves exactly six inches of empty space between us. It feels like a goddamn canyon.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I say.
A breeze kicks up, carrying his scent straight to me. Warm, sharp, intoxicating. My skin prickles. The park, the fountain, the people—it all drops away until it’s just him, me, and the six inches of wood between us.
“Nice park,” I offer.
“It’s terrible. Full of happy people.”
“The worst kind.”
A couple strolls past us, holding hands. The alpha leans over and nuzzles the omega’s neck right there in broad daylight. Benji glares at them like he wants to set them on fire with his mind.
“Disgusting,” he mutters.
“Really inconsiderate,” I agree.
His mouth twitches. He catches it instantly and looks away, but that tiny, aborted smirk does more to my dick than anything that happened in his hallway.
“Why the catfish?” I ask.
He shoots me a sideways glance. “Because you deserved it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”
That throws him. I can see it register in his eyes. He came here ready for an argument, ready for me to deflect and turn on the charm. He studies my face for a second, his brow furrowing.
“I wanted to see your face,” he says, his voice a fraction quieter. “When you realized.”
“How was it?”
“Satisfying.” He pauses. “For about three seconds before everything went sideways.”
“Everything went very sideways,” I agree.
He makes a sound that might actually be a laugh. Short, sharp, defensive. But the air between us shifts.
We talk. Not about the mate bond, or the sex, or the giant, gaping chasm of my fuck-up.
Just regular shit. He complains about his design work and a band poster that’s fighting him.
I tell him about the shop and the girl who cried through her butterfly tattoo.
He asks about the ink on my forearm, I tell him the story, and he roasts me for it.
I make fun of his anonymous meme account.
He tells me about the most unhinged KnotMe profile he’s ever seen; I counter with the worst tattoo request I’ve ever gotten.
He laughs. A real one this time. I take that sound and lock it away in my chest.
“Your people from around here?” he asks casually, leaning back against the bench.
The phone call from last night presses against my ribs.
I could tell him. I could tell him about my dad, the rehab program, the appointments, the way I suffocate in that house.
But it’s too much for a park bench. It’s too heavy for the first real conversation we’ve had where he isn't actively trying to eviscerate me. I don’t want to watch his face change.
“Yeah, they’re local,” I say smoothly. “My mom’s a saint. Standard stuff.”
He doesn’t push. I’m grateful, and I fucking hate that I’m grateful.
Another couple passes. An alpha carrying an omega on his back, both of them giggling like idiots. We watch them go.
“That should be illegal,” Benji says.
“In public? Yeah.”
“Who does that? Just... carries someone around?”
“People who’ve lost all shame.”
“The bar scene too.” Benji crosses his arms tighter over his chest. “This city’s infested. Byrne’s used to be safe, but now Jude and Rhys are in there being domestic, and Milo brings Callum, and they all share a booth. It’s like sitting in someone else’s love story.”
“I don’t know who any of those people are, but I hate them on your behalf.”
“You will know them,” Benji says.
He blinks. His jaw snaps shut like he didn’t mean to say it. Like the sentence slipped past his teeth before he could stop it. He looks away fast, staring hard at the fountain.
I don’t point it out. But I heard it. He said will, not would. That’s a word that looks forward. A door left open, maybe by accident, maybe not. Something tight and painful in my chest suddenly loosens. I don’t touch it. I don’t say a word to jinx it. I just let it sit there between us.
We look at each other. The ridiculousness of it hangs in the air—us sitting here acting like we’re above all the sappy bullshit, while the mate bond hums between us so loud I can feel it vibrating in my teeth. His mouth twitches again. I don't smile either.
The light changes. Golden hour bleeds into dusk, and the park starts to empty out. We’ve been sitting here for over an hour. Neither of us has made a move to leave. The six inches between us is definitely down to five, and I honestly don't know which one of us shifted.
“So now what?” I ask.
Benji looks at me. For half a second, his face is completely open.
No sarcasm. No Aubrey Plaza deadpan. Just him.
Tired, messy, and real. I can see exactly how much he doesn’t want to be here, and exactly how much he doesn’t want to leave.
Then he catches himself, and the armor slides back into place.
But it’s slower this time. That half-second is enough.
“I don’t know,” he says. And for once, it doesn’t sound like a weapon.
The park is quiet. Just us, the water, and the fading light. I’m sitting on a bench next to Benji Rowe, and I don't want to leave. Not because of the scent, or the bond, or the biology screaming at me.
It’s because he’s funny, and he's mean, and sitting next to him is the best I’ve felt in months.
And that thought is scarier than anything that happened in his hallway.