The morning after Knox met Emma, Maya woke to find him already awake. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window, his back to her. The early light caught the lines of his tattoos, the curve of his shoulders, the tension in his spine. His hands were clasped in his lap, and she could see the faint tremor in them. He'd been sitting like that for a while, she could tell—his coffee mug was cold, untouched on the nightstand, and the sheets beside him were undisturbed. He hadn't slept at all. The circles under his eyes were deep, purple shadows that spoke of a long night of wrestling with ghosts. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, like he was holding himself together by sheer willpower, like one wrong word would shatter him completely.
She reached out, her fingers brushin
