Page 158 of Break Me

His mouth twitches slightly at that. “Figured I’d check in.”

“Sam asked you to.” It’s not a question.

“Maybe.” He exhales through his nose, pushing off the doorframe as he steps inside.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

“You didn’t have to come.”

He huffs out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, “I did.”

I move toward the living room, crossing the space slowly. Knox follows, his presence steady behind me. There’s something about having him here that quiets the fear that’s been pressing in more lately. The awareness of how short my time left is.

As I turn toward the couch and shift my weight to sit, the room tilts and my hand misses the edge of the cushion by an inch.

Knox is there before I can correct it, his hand closing around my arm, steady and firm as he keeps me upright.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.

I nod once, more to move past it than anything else, and lower myself onto the couch, slower this time, more careful.

His hand lingers for a second longer before he lets go and reaches behind me to grab the blanket folded over the back of the couch. He drapes it over my lap.

“Thanks,” I say.

He nods once, like it’s nothing. But he doesn’t go far. He moves to the chair across from me, sitting forward slightly.

We both know he’s here because Sam asked him to be. Because neither of them trusts me to be home alone in case something happens. I let that truth sit between us for a second. Let the silence stretch just a little longer. Long enough that I know I’m not going to stop once I start.

Then I draw in a slow breath and lift my eyes to his.

“I need you to do something for me.”

There’s no preamble. No warning.

Knox stills. “What is it?”

I don’t let myself look away this time because if I do, I might not say what I need to.

“I need you to take care of him.”

The words land between us, quiet but solid. Knox’s expression hardens immediately.

“No.”

I expected that.

“I’m not asking you to⁠—”

“You are,” he cuts in, his voice tightening. “And I’m not doing this with you.”

“This isn’t about you.”

“Yeah, it is,” he says. “Because you’re talking like⁠—”

“I’m talking like someone who knows what’s coming,” I interrupt, my voice steady. “And you do too.”

The words hang between us. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t deny it either.