Page 187 of What We Bury

I follow him out to the living room in my boxers, scratching my stomach, and we both stop in the doorway.

Sage is on the couch. Curled up sideways in Knox’s lap like a kitten who found the warmest spot in the house and claimed it. Her head is tucked under his chin, one hand fisted loosely in his shirt. Knox’s arms are around her—one across her back, one cradling her head—and he’s asleep. Actually asleep. Eyes closed, breathing deep, jaw slack. Maybe a little drool.

I have never seen Knox asleep before. I didn’t know he could. I assumed he just stood in a corner and powered down like a robot until someone said the activation word, which is probably something like “threat” or “noose” or “Sage is in danger.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper, grabbing Holden’s arm. “Look at them. Look at that. That’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I need to take a photo. Where’s my phone? I’m going to frame it and put it on the fridge?—”

“Get off me.”

I let go of his arm. But I’m still looking at the couch, and honestly, my heart is doing a thing right now. A big, stupid, warm thing. Knox doesn’t let people close. Knox doesn’t touch people. Knox doesn’t fall asleep in the presence of other humansbecause Knox doesn’t trust the world enough to close his eyes. And here he is, dead to the world, with our girl curled up in his lap like she belongs there.

Because she does. She belongs with all of us.

I glance at Holden and catch it—the micro-expression before he irons it out. Something tight and unhappy.

“Hey.” I nudge him. “You okay?”

He works his jaw. “I wanted to wake up with her.”

“I know, man. But look at it this way—she fell asleep between us. She chose us to share her bed. Knox was on surveillance last night. So she probably stumbled into him when she got up to pee. It’s not like she did the walk of shame and regret.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you look like you’re having a feeling and it’s making you angry.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “She’s not mine. She’s ours. I know that. I want that. I just need to get used to wanting her and not being the only one she reaches for.”

My chest does something inconvenient.

“Yeah,” I say, softer than usual. “That’s kind of the whole terrifying deal.” I clap him on the back. “Welcome to the polycule.”

“Never call it that again.”

“Throuple? Love pentagon? Sage’s harem of emotionally damaged murder boys?”

“I’m leaving. Tell Sage I’ll see her later.”

“No. You’re not leaving just yet. I’m making breakfast. All sleepovers must end with a hearty meal.”

I head into the kitchen and survey the situation. It’s still a little messy from last night, so I make quick work of getting rid of the leftovers and bagging up the trash while Holden puts a pot of coffee on.

Sage’s kitchen is small but functional—clean counters, gas stove, slightly dented fridge. The Kiss the Cook apron is hanging by the fridge, so obviously I put it on.

Then I’m in the fridge. Eggs. Bacon. Bread for toast. Milk for coffee. Breakfast infrastructure. My love language, but with more cholesterol.

I crack eggs and start whisking. This is what I do. Some people deal with complicated emotions through therapy or meditation or journaling. I deal with them by feeding people. It’s basically the same thing except calories instead of catharsis. Milo’s love language: acts of food prep.

The sizzle of bacon is what wakes them. I hear Knox’s low rumble from the living room, Sage’s sleepy murmur, the soft sounds of untangling. A moment later, Sage shuffles into the kitchen.

She’s wrecked in that soft, post-sex, barely-awake way—hair going six directions, pressure mark on her cheek from Knox’s chest, eyes at maybe twenty percent capacity. She’s wearing the big T-shirt from last night like a dress and blinking at us like her body is still loading.

She looks like a baby woodland creature that hasn’t figured out how legs work yet. She’s perfect. I want to keep her forever.

“Morning, kitten.” I brandish the spatula. “Eggs?”

She makes a sound that is not a word. Not even close to a word. It’s the sound a cat makes when you pick it up and it’s not ready. She shuffles to the counter and plants herself on a stool, folding her arms and putting her head down like a kid at a school desk whose parents don’t enforce bedtime.

Knox follows her in, already looking fully operational—composed, alert, upright. The man went from dead asleep to mission-ready in under thirty seconds. It’s honestly unsettling. Like watching a phone go from zero to a hundred percent in the time it takes to blink.