Page 19 of The Darkest Knight

But Cari? She’s different. She always has been.

I sat in the corner of her room, watching her sleep. It’s a strange feeling, being in her space. Her room is warm, lived-in, and nothing like the sterile perfection of the women I’ve dated. There are books piled on the nightstand, a framed photo of her with her mom, and a soft throw blanket draped over the chair where I’m sitting. It feels like her—real, unguarded. Genuine.

I return with a glass of water. She stirs, her eyelids fluttering open. For a moment, she looks disoriented, her gaze darting around until it lands on me.

“Ouch.” Her voice is hoarse, and she sits up again slowly, wincing.

“Drink this.” I hand her the glass.

“Thank you,” she croaks.

“How are you feeling?”

She groans, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Like I got hit by a truck.” Another groan follows. “I’m sorry you had to…” She trails off, her cheeks flushing.

“Don’t apologize. We all have our moments.”

“Still,” she murmurs, looking down at the glass. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“Why does it matter?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Her eyes lift to meet mine, and for a moment, there’s something unspoken hanging between us. “Because … you’re my … boss.”

I ground down on my molars. That’s a fucking fact. And it’s been bouncing around in my head through the night. I clear my throat. “I wasn’t going to leave you alone like this. Drink. You’ll feel better.”

She sips the water, her lips pressing against the rim of the glass, and I look away, focusing on the nightstand. My throat feels tight, and I have no idea why. This isn’t the first time I’ve taken care of Cari. She’s broken down a few times in the office since her mom got ill, and I’ve tried to be gentle and kind. But this, tonight, it feels different—more intimate, more dangerous.

“Thank you … for staying.”

“Anyone would think I was nursing you though an illness—”Fuck, I inwardly mutter to myself. She didn’t need to be reminded of that. “I’m sorry. I was looking for some painkillers but couldn’t find them,” I ramble.

“That’s because they’re not in the kitchen.” She directs me to her bathroom cupboard. While I’m in there, I check the faucets and see that they’re fine but many of the wall tiles are missing.

When I return with the Advil, Cari’s sitting up straighter, looking less groggy and more embarrassed. She takes the tablets from me, her fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. It’s enough to send a spark of something I can’t quite name through me.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her eyes downcast. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” I sit down on the edge of the bed, further away from her.

“I don’t want you to think I’m irresponsible. Or a mess.”

“You’re not a mess,” I say, my voice firmer than I intended. “You’re human, Cari. You’re allowed to let go once in a while.”

She shakes her head, her fingers tightening around the glass. “It doesn’t feel that way. I feel like I have to hold it together. Always.”

Something about the way she says it cuts through me. I know that feeling—too well. “You don’t have to hold it together for me.”

She blinks, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to say something, but then she looks down, her fingers twisting in her lap. “Thank you. For … everything.”

“Stop thanking me,” I say, standing abruptly. I need space—need air—but I don’t move far. “You’d do the same for me.”

She smiles faintly, her eyes meeting mine. “I don’t think you’d ever let me see you like this.”

“No,” I admit. “But that’s because I’m an ass.”

The laugh that escapes her is soft and hoarse, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all night. “You’re not always an ass,” she says.

“You’re just being nice to me, for a change.”

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