Page 139 of Knot So Lucky
The vibrations travel through my hand, up my arm, somehow soothing in ways I don't have words for. Like the kitten is actively trying to heal whatever damage the last few days inflicted.
I wonder absently if it's a boy or girl before deciding it doesn't really matter right now.
The kitten tolerates my petting for approximately thirty seconds before apparently deciding it has more interesting places to be. It hops off the bed with surprising agility for something so small, landing with a soft thump on the floor.
I pout at the abandonment, watching it go.
But the purring continues—loud and content and coming from somewhere beside the bed.
Curiosity overrides exhaustion.
I lean over the edge of the mattress, peering down to locate the source of the sound, and my breath catches.
Elias.
Elias Vance is sleeping on the floor beside my bed, curled on his side with a pillow under his head and what looks like a thin blanket draped over his body. The kitten has apparently decided he makes an excellent bed, settling directly on his chest where it continues purring with obvious satisfaction.
I gawk at the sight.
He looks so peaceful in sleep. Those round spectacles are folded neatly on the floor beside him, and without them his face looks younger, softer. His brown hair is tousled in ways that suggest he fell asleep without bothering to fix it, falling across his forehead in messy waves.
There are dark circles under his eyes—exhaustion that suggests he hasn't been sleeping well. Or sleeping enough. Or possibly sleeping at all while he was apparently helping me through my heat.
The thought makes my chest tight.
He helped me. Stayed with me. Took care of me during what was probably the most vulnerable state I've ever been in.
And now he's sleeping on the floor like some kind of martyr.
Why is he on the floor?
The question bothers me more than it should. There's clearly enough room in this bed for two people—it's at least a queen-size, possibly king. There's no reason for him to be uncomfortable on the floor when there's a perfectly good mattress right here.
Unless...
Unless he didn't want to assume. Didn't want to presume intimacy beyond what the heat demanded. Didn't want to cross boundaries without explicit permission now that I'm back to myself.
The realization makes something warm bloom in my chest.
I reach down without thinking, my fingers finding the strands of hair that have fallen across his forehead. I brush them back gently, tucking them behind his ear in a gesture that's more intimate than I intended.
The touch makes his eyes flutter open.
Not fully awake, still caught in that space between sleep and consciousness where reactions are genuine rather than calculated. His green eyes are hazy, unfocused, but they find mine with surprising accuracy.
A sleepy smirk curves his lips.
"Good morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and absolutely devastating in its unguarded warmth.
I can't help it—I giggle. Actuallygigglelike I'm some lovestruck teenager instead of a grown woman who just survived her first heat.
"It's clearly evening," I correct, even though I'm smiling.
His smirk widens into something more genuine. "Well, we know it's morning for us techs. Time is a social construct when you spend your life in garages."
The casual acknowledgment of our shared profession—the way he includes me naturally as "us techs" instead of separating me as other or different—makes my chest warm.
"Why are you sleeping on the floor?" The question comes out softer than intended, genuine curiosity rather than accusation.
