Chapter 15
Benji
Snap.
The pen splinters in my grip. Ink bleeds across the paper, ruining the third sketch I’ve trashed in the last hour. I don't give a shit. My hands are shaking too hard to draw anyway. I shove the sketchbook away and glare at my phone, sitting face down on the desk.
Four texts. Over three hours. Nothing but fucking silence.
I know his dad is in the hospital. I know that. But my chest is tight, and my stupid omega brain is short-circuiting because it feels exactly like the morning I woke up alone.
I was supposed to strip the bed an hour ago.
I stood there, hand hovering over the fitted sheet, and froze.
Knox’s scent is still buried in the fabric—cedar, ink, and skin, tangled up with mine.
I couldn't do it. Couldn't wash him out of the pillowcase I’ve been pressing my face into.
A pathetic, needy whine vibrates in the back of my throat, and I want to claw it out.
He promised he wouldn't disappear again, and here I am, six hours into radio silence.
I’ve spent the last three hours scripting exactly what I’m going to say to him.
It’s a masterpiece. It’s the kind of speech that will gut him, make him feel exactly as hollow as I did when he bolted.
I have the opening line loaded. I have the final "get the fuck out" polished to a lethal edge. If he shows up with one of his cocky smirks or half-assed excuses, I’m done.
Shay left two hours ago with a sympathetic squeeze to my shoulder because my face was probably doing something tragic.
Soren is out. The apartment is dead quiet.
The knock at the door sends a jolt straight down my spine.
I’m out of the chair before I even make the conscious decision to move. I grab the doorknob, taking a sharp breath to load that first devastating line onto my tongue. This is it. I yank the door open.
The speech dies in my throat.
Knox looks like absolute shit. His eyes are red-rimmed, his dark curls pushed back and greasy with sweat.
He’s still wearing the shirt I pulled over his head this morning, only now it’s wrinkled and reeks of clinical antiseptic.
It completely smothers his cedar scent. Underneath the hospital bleach is something worse: raw, unfiltered panic.
There’s no smirk. No lean against the doorframe. No "Miss me, sweetheart?" He just stands there, empty, and the silence is deafening. He came here first. He didn't go home to shower or sleep. He drove straight here.
"I know," he rasps. Two words. No bullshit excuse. Just a surrender.
I step back, and he walks in. I don’t invite him, but he takes the inch I give him.
"My dad crashed," he says, his voice stripped bare. "My mom was... I was doing paperwork, talking to the doctors. I kept reaching for my phone, but—"
"Stop." My voice is unnervingly flat. If I yell, I’ll crack, and I refuse to give him that. "I know about your dad. That’s not the part I’m pissed about."
He snaps his mouth shut and waits.
"You did it again," I bite out, the words tasting like acid. "You left me in my own head for hours. I’ve been staring at my phone, Knox. And I know the reason is different this time, but it feels exactly the fucking same. You were gone, and I was here, and—"
My eyes burn. Fuck. I scrub the back of my hand over my cheek, furious at the wetness there. I didn't want him to know he could still make me cry.
Knox doesn't flinch. He doesn't reach for me or try to charm his way out of it. He just stands in the middle of my living room, taking every hit like he deserves it. It’s infuriating. I need him to fight back so I can stay mad.
"If you want me," I start, hating the way my voice wavers.
I force the words out anyway. "You don't get to do this halfway.
I'm not your distraction. I'm not the guy you text when it's easy and ghost when it's hard.
I'm your fucking mate." I clench my jaw, glaring at him through blurry vision.
"You bring me in. The hospital, your mom, the middle-of-the-night panic attacks.
All of it. Or you walk out that door right now and stay gone.
I can't do the silence again, Knox. I won't survive it. "
A muscle feathers in Knox's jaw. His eyes go bright and glassy, and my chest seizes. Knox Rivera doesn't cry. But right now, he looks like he's barely holding himself together.
"I love you."
His voice cracks down the middle on the word. It sounds wrecked. It sounds like it physically hurt to say.
His knees give out. He catches himself on the arm of my couch, bracing his weight as he drops lower than me. He looks up, and there’s zero swagger left. Just a man running on fumes.
"I don't know how to do this right," he chokes out.
"I called you. I thought that was enough, and it wasn't. I grew up watching my dad fail at this, and I swore I'd be different, but I'm not.
I'm going to fuck it up again." He swallows hard.
"But I want you there. In the hospital. Next to my mom.
I want you in all of it, and I'm sorry it took me this long to figure out how to say it. "
The air leaves my lungs. The sharp, jagged anger I’ve been holding onto for hours just..
. dissolves. I try to reach for a sarcastic comeback, but my brain is empty.
He said it. He gave me the exact words I demanded, stripped of all his usual bullshit, kneeling against my couch like he’s got nothing left to lose.
"I love you too, you absolute idiot," I sob, a wet, humiliating laugh tearing out of my throat. It’s the truest thing I’ve ever said.
I wipe my face again, trying to pull myself together. "That doesn't mean you're forgiven yet."
I need him to know I'm not a total pushover. My hand shoots out, grabbing the front of his hoodie, and I yank him up.
Knox crashes into me, his mouth crushing over mine.
He tastes like salt and hospital coffee and pure desperation.
Underneath the bleach, his cedar scent finally flares, warm and real, and my omega lets out a low, satisfied hum.
I tangle my fingers in his greasy hair, kissing him back just as hard.
He wraps his arms around me, his grip bruising, holding on like I’m going to evaporate.
We stumble backward. He pushes me toward the bedroom, our mouths still locked together. We cross the threshold, hitting the edge of the mattress. We fall into the tangled mess of sheets I couldn’t bring myself to wash.
His weight settles over me, heavy and grounding. The room smells like us. I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him flush against me. The mate bond settles into a steady, thrumming heat in my veins.
Knox rests his forehead against mine, both of us panting. He slides his hand under my shirt, his palm warm against my ribs. I leave my fingers tangled in his curls.
He came back. He said it. And as I look up into his dark, exhausted eyes, I finally let myself believe he's staying.