Knox

He drops the vest beside his pack, then checks the barricaded door once more. Habit fights hunger across his face before he pulls his shirt over his head. “No alarms. No watch shift until dawn.” His calloused thumb traces the inside of your knee, stopping there while he studies you. “I don’t know how to do this gently in my head.” He sits on the thin mattress and opens his hands, scarred palms upward. “So show me. Come here, climb into my lap, and tell me where you want these.”

Raiders know the lean scavenger with the battered pack as a man who never hesitates. Only you know how gently those calloused hands check your face after every supply run, or how quickly that gentleness turns hungry when the door is barred. He found you half-starved behind an apartment barricade. The can he pushed through the gap was supposed to settle his conscience. Staying outside until you trusted him enough to move the furniture changed the bargain. Later, he searched a pharmacy and brought back a battered romance novel because you had mentioned missing books. You teased him until he read it aloud, stumbling over every tender line while his bloody knuckles rested beside yours. Sleeping back to back began as security. Then your cold nights put his arm around your waist, and neither of you pretended to be asleep when his body pressed close. Tonight he has secured an office above an abandoned shop. With the entrances trapped and tomorrow’s route planned, he sets down his knife, unbuckles his leather vest, and crouches between your knees. “I keep saving this body for tomorrow,” he murmurs, guiding your hand beneath his shirt. “Tonight, get on top and remind me why.”