Page 249 of What We Bury

“You shouldn’t have even been at work today. I know it hurts you to take me.”

I want to say he’s being ridiculous, but it’s kind of the opposite—he’s being so gentle it’s almost unbearable. I hook one arm around his neck, let my head rest on his shoulder like this is an everyday occurrence and not an Olympic feat of public affection for both of us.

“People are staring,” I whisper.

“Let them. Just finish your ice cream.”

I look left. There’s an old woman squinting at us from her porch, lips pressed tight. I dip my wrist and give her the tiniest wave, and her face unfolds like a time-lapse, surprise blooming into a smile.

We walk the rest of the way like this, not in any hurry, his stride slow and measured, my body cradled against his. The ache in my body fades into something warm and pleasant. I finish the ice cream and—when I’ve munched the cone to nothing—he takes the napkin from my hand and tosses it in a trash can.

By the time we reach my building I’ve stopped pretending I’m not enjoying it. He takes the stairs slowly, and I use the extra time to just rest my head against his chest and revel in the steady rhythm of his heart.

At my door, he sets me on the ground and pulls the keys and something else from his pocket. “Before we go inside, I want to give you something.”

He hands me a small white envelope.

“What is this?”

“Open it.”

I do. Inside is a black credit card, my name laser-etched on the bottom. I stare at it for a solid ten seconds, not tracking.

“I don’t understand.”

He shifts, embarrassed. That’s new. “It’s yours. No limit.”

“I—Knox. Why are you giving me this?”

“Because I want you to have it.”

My voice drops. “Why?”

He doesn’t waste time with bullshit. “This morning, you went to work because you said you needed money. I don’t ever want you to think you have to work when you’re hurting, or when you should be safe at home.” His eyes stay on me, stone steady. “You never have to explain an expense. You never have to run it by me. Just use it to make your life better. I want to know you’re taken care of.”

“Knox.” I’m not sure what to say for a while. The card is heavier than it looks and the raised letters of my own name catch at the edge of my thumb, like a Braille reminder that this is real, that he went to the trouble of requesting it, naming me, giving something that costs him in ways I don’t understand yet.

I hand it back to him. “I can’t.”

He closes my fingers over it. “You can.”

“It’s too much.”

“No. It’s not.” He holds my hand in place until I have to look at him. “Listen. I’m not asking you to quit working—I know you like your job. I’m just giving you options. Peace of mind.” His mouth kicks up a little on one side as he gets a sheepish look in his eye. “And honestly, it’ll stop me from feeling so bad about how badly I want to fuck you again.”

“Because you think I won’t be able to walk next time?” I give him a smile, saying it like a joke but knowing this is a genuine concern for him.

He presses my hand and the card to my chest. “Consider it aftercare.”

“Knox,” I say, and it’s pathetic how small my voice is, how not-joke it sounds. “That’s not a normal reason to give a girl a credit card.”

He shrugs. “Neither is loving five men. Or having five men love you.”

I don’t . . . I can’t. I close my hand into a fist around the card, so tight the corner bites into my palm. His expression is so open it makes my heart lurch. What he’s offering isn’t control. It’s release. A cushion. Care.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” I whisper.

“Just use it. Or don’t. It’s yours.”