Page 27 of Knight
I know the number because I pulled her file. I know her rent, her income, the gap between them that she fills with tips counted by touch on a bus at one in the morning. I know the math of her life better than she thinks I do.
But knowing it on paper and seeing it at two AM — the circles under her eyes so dark they look bruised, her fingers white-knuckled on the counter's edge, the coffee can above therefrigerator where she keeps cash that's never enough — these are different kinds of knowing.
"Tomás?" I ask.
"Slept through it." She exhales and something in her shoulders releases half an inch. "He always does. Marisol screams and he just — keeps dreaming."
"Lucky kid."
"Yeah." Her mouth almost curves. Almost. "Lucky."
She looks at me then. Full on. And I can see her running the calculation — what my presence costs, what it implies, what debt it creates in the invisible ledger she keeps between us. Whether the man standing in her kitchen at two in the morning wearing a watch worth more than her annual rent is a comfort or a complication.
I watch her decide.
I watch her fail to decide.
The silence stretches and I fill it by doing the only thing that makes sense. I turn on her tap, squeeze dish soap onto the sponge sitting on the sink's edge, and start washing the plates.
She stares at me like I've pulled a weapon.
"What are you doing?"
"Dishes."
"Romeo—"
"Go sit down, Nova."
Her mouth opens. Closes. She grips the counter harder, and I can see the war in her — the part that wants to shove me out the door and the part that is so fucking tired of carrying everything alone that a man washing her dishes at two in the morning might be the thing that finally cracks her open.
She lets go of the counter. Walks to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, leans against the frame, and watches me scrub dried tomato sauce off a plate that probably cost two dollars at a dollar store.
She doesn't say thank you.
She doesn't have to.
The Invitation He Did Not Plan
The last plate is clean. I set it in the rack next to the others and dry my hands on a towel that smells like fabric softener and something citrus — the same smell that clings to her skin when she's close enough to destroy me.
I should leave. Marisol is asleep. Tomás never woke up. The crisis that pulled me across the city is over, and every second I stay in this apartment pushes me further past a line I drew for a reason.
Nova is still leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Watching me with that expression I can't crack — the one that lives somewhere betweenI dare youandplease don't.
I dry my hands. Fold the towel. Set it on the counter like a man who is definitely about to say goodnight and walk out.
"Come to my place."
The words leave my mouth before my brain signs off on them. She blinks. I keep going because stopping now would mean admitting I didn't mean to say it, and I don't know if that's true.
"Tomorrow. Get out of this apartment for a few hours. Bring the kids or don't. No strings. No agenda."
Her arms tighten across her chest. "That's not part of our deal."
"I know."
"Then what is it?"
