Chapter 5 Good Girl

• Ellerei’s room is the smallest in the safehouse — her choice. Four walls, a narrow bed, a secondhand dresser that smells faintly of old wood polish and gun oil. A window she never opens.
• It’s nearly dawn by the time the knock comes.
• Soft, almost polite — three slow raps against cheap wood. The kind that says it’s me, before she even sees his face.
• She’s still wearing the black blazer from the job, sleeves pushed to her elbows. Her hair’s half undone — the white streak spilling wild across her cheekbone as she opens the door.
• Knox leans against the frame like the world’s heaviest exhale. He’s showered, but his lip is still split, knuckles bandaged badly — a half-assed wrap he probably did himself.
• He’s got that grin again. The soft one. The one that means nothing when it should.
• “Hey, Vale.”
• She should slam the door. Tell him find Decker, find Bishop, find the ghost of that girl you keep crawling back to. But she doesn’t.
• She just steps back. Leaves the door wide.
• He drops onto her bed like it’s his. Legs spread, back hunched, elbows braced on his knees. He smells like soap, stale whiskey sweat, and bruised pride.
• She rummages in her dresser for the battered first aid kit. Pops the latch. Kneels in front of him, between his spread knees. She doesn’t think about how small the room feels when he’s here. How big he is when she’s this close.
• He watches her — the whole time. Dark green eyes tracking the flex of her fingers as she snaps on gloves, tears open antiseptic wipes, gently peels back the hasty wrap on his knuckles.
• She dabs at the split skin, careful not to meet his eyes. “You did this to yourself,” she murmurs.
• Knox huffs a breath. Not quite a laugh. “Had to look convincing.”
• “You did that just fine with your face,” she says, flicking a look at the purpling bruise under his eye. “Maybe next time try using your words.”
• His mouth curves — soft, tired. “Where’s the fun in that?”
• She should hate him for it — the boyish charm he turns on when he wants her soft. She doesn’t. She never does.
• He flinches when she swipes antiseptic over the cut on his lip. Not because it hurts — but because her thumb brushes his chin, her knuckles graze his throat.
• He’s so close she can see the tiny scratch at the base of his jaw — Talia’s parting gift. It’s almost healed. She hates how her chest tightens anyway.
• “You should sleep,” she says.
• “Could say the same for you,” he counters.
• She tapes his knuckles tighter, neat and perfect — like if she holds him together piece by piece he won’t break so easy for someone else next time.
• When she finishes, he catches her wrist before she can pull back.
• His thumb drags over the pulse there — slow, heavy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He never does.
• “You’re good at this,” he murmurs. Like it’s new.
• “I’ve had practice,” she says. It comes out too quiet. Too true.
• He leans in — not far, just enough that his knee brushes her hip, his breath warm where it ghosts over her temple.
• “Don’t know what I’d do without you, Elle.”
• She hates how it lands in her chest — like a knife that doesn’t know if it wants to cut or stitch her up.
• “You’d figure it out,” she says softly.
• He shakes his head — slow, stubborn. “Nah. Not like this.”
• And he smiles — that smile. Soft, raw, grateful for something he doesn’t see he’s destroying. She wants to shove him away. She wants to crawl into his lap and beg him to stay.
• She does neither.
• He lets her wrist go. Stands slow, like his body’s heavier than it was when he came in.
• “You sleep,” he says. Like it’s his idea. Like he’s the one watching out for her.
• She nods. Tucks the first aid kit back into her dresser. When she turns again, the door’s half-shut behind him. He’s gone.
• She stands there for a long time, fingers pressed to the pulse under her jaw where his thumb was.
• Then she locks the door. Kicks off her boots. Drops onto the narrow bed still warm from where he sat.
• And she waits for sleep that won’t come.