Page 56 of If He Hadn't Cheated
I should be scared. Instead, I’m melting.
At work, he’s professional, but the softness in his eyes never fades. Whenever he passes my office, his hand brushes the doorframe in a small, secret signal.
I see you.
I’m here.
You matter.
By Thursday, I feel myself slipping, falling too fast, wanting too much. Knox senses it. Of course he does. That evening, he shows up at my door holding something behind his back.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“A mistake,” he says, stepping in, “if you don’t like it.”
He reveals a small wooden box. Inside is a silver key on a chain.
My breath stops. “Knox?—”
“It’s not what you think.” His voice softens. “It’s a key to my place. Not because I expect you to stay there. But because I want you to know the door is always open.”
I swallow, emotions rising too sharp, too fast. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I know,” he whispers, stepping closer. “But I wanted to.”
Tears sting my eyes unexpectedly. I turn away, embarrassed, but he gently takes my face in his hands. “Lana,” he murmurs,“you deserve someone who doesn’t make you question if you’re wanted.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You deserve someone who shows you,” he continues, “every damn day.”
He leans his forehead to mine. “I want to be that someone.”
His words break something open inside me. Something tender. Something fragile. I kiss him, slow, grateful, trembling.
He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me to the bedroom like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. He makes love to me like he’s learning my soul.
And afterward, when he wraps himself around me, murmuring soft promises into my hair, I realize something:
This isn’t temporary.
This isn’t a mistake.
This isn’t a rebound.
This is real.
29
Six Months Later
Iwake up in Knox’s bed on Sunday morning, sunlight warm on my skin. His arm is draped over my waist, his breath slow and steady against the back of my neck.
For the first time in years, I feel… safe.
He stirs, pressing a sleepy kiss between my shoulder blades. “Good morning,” he mumbles, voice rough.
“Morning.”
He rolls me onto my back, hovering over me, brushing my hair from my face with gentle fingers. “You’re beautiful,” he says.
