Page 4 of When The Noise Stops

Big hands closed around my waist, and the world tilted as I was lifted clean off the ground like I weighed nothing. My bare feet dangled for half a second before he set me down, but he didn't let go.

I had never really seen him close up. Dark hair longer on top, shorter on the sides, jaw set hard. The hands still holding my arms were massive, scarred across the knuckles. He wasn't handsome, and he wasn't ugly.

"You need the hospital?" The question came out flat, but his eyes weren't. They tracked over my face.

I shook my head too fast.

"No. I'm fine."

The lie was exposed immediately. Another boom cracked the sky, and my whole body jerked. His grip tightened.

"Doesn't look fine."

"Fireworks," I forced out. The word scraped.

"Just... fireworks. My ex. He—he shot at me. Once. Shot me once. Everything is louder in my head."

I waited for the usual reactions... the pity, the discomfort, the polite step back. People never knew what to do with the information.

Knox didn't step back.

He didn't say he was sorry. He didn't ask if the guy was in prison—though he was. He just looked at me for another long second, then grunted and steered me toward the back steps of my own house like he'd decided the conversation was over.

I went because if he wasn't holding me up, I'd fall to the ground again.

He sat first, heavy boots planted on the lower step, and tugged me down beside him. Not next to him—closer than that. Damn near on top of his huge thigh. I could feel his heartbeat against my flesh. He smelled like expensive cologne, motor oil, and outside. One big arm stayed loose around my shoulders.

The fireworks kept going. Every time one went off, I recoiled. He pulled me closer. I tried the grounding exercise again. I started with five things I could see: the chipped paint between my feet, the scuffed edge of his boot, the dark line of the fence, a late orange bloom in the sky, the grass gone silver in the porch light.

Four I could touch… rough wood under my thighs, cool air on my bare legs, worn leather against my arm, the steady furnace of a man who still hadn't moved.

Three things I could hear: my own breathing evening out, the distant pops growing further apart, the rumble of his voice when he finally spoke again.

"Name's Knox," he said, like we hadn't lived fifteen feet apart for six months.

"Most people call me Grizz. You can pick."

I let out a shaky laugh that surprised us both.

"Lila. I know your name."

Another boom. My body still tensed, but not as much as before.

The arm around me shifted, tightening. I realized I was leaning into him, cheek pressed against the soft cotton of the shirt under his cut. I hadn't chosen to cling to him. My body had simply chosen to.

We sat like that while the last of the fireworks stopped. The dog down the street finally stopped barking. A car door slammed somewhere on the next block. The night settled back into ordinary August quiet.

My shaking slowed, then stopped. The cold sweat on my back dried.

Exhaustion rolled over me. I tried to sit up, to put some space between us.

His arm didn't move.

"I'm okay," I mumbled, but the words came out soft and unconvinced.

"You don't have to—"

He cut me off.