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Alisa Ortega did not take visitors after 10 p.m.
Especially not on a Wednesday. Especially not when she had court in the morning. Especially not when the visitor in question was—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Alisaaaaa,” came a muffled voice from the hallway. “Lawyer lady. Open up.”
She sighed through her teeth and pulled the door open so fast it nearly hit the wall behind her.
Knox Landry leaned against the doorframe with the confidence of someone who’d been drinking and bleeding in equal measure.
His lip was split. His shirt—untucked, wrinkled, stained—had a tear across the shoulder. One arm dangled limply, cradling a hand that looked like it had gone a few rounds with asphalt. Or bone.
“What the hell?” she snapped.
He blinked at her like she’d just appeared from nowhere. “Oh. Hey, pretty girl.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“You’re beautiful.” He grinned, all teeth and bruised ego. “God, you’re bossy. I missed it.”
She stared at him. “You are drunk.”
“Tipsy. Buzzed. Emotionally expressive.”
“And stupid.”
“Reckless,” he corrected, lifting a finger. “You always call me reckless when you’re about to patch me up and yell at me.”
“You think this is cute?”
“No, I think you are.”
“Inside. Now.”
He staggered in with a smug little salute, tripping over the rug she told him not to touch every time he came over. Which, lately, had been too often for someone she claimed not to care about.
He made it as far as the kitchen counter before she shoved a dish towel into his good hand and barked, “Pressure on the cut. Sit.”
Knox plopped onto a stool and squinted up at her like she was his entire religion. “You always wear those silk pajama pants when you’re mad at me.”
“That’s because I’m always mad at you at home. Because you only ever show up here in the middle of the damn night when something is wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re bleeding on my tile!”
He held up both hands. One was crusted in blood. The other still gripped the towel. “Okay, maybe a little wrong.”
“Who did this?”
“Some guy.” A beat. “Well, two guys. Brothers. Long story.”
She arched a brow and crossed her arms, her tank top dipping just slightly. Knox followed the movement with shameless appreciation.
“I’m not bailing you out again,” she warned.
“You say that every time. And yet,” he lifted his arm like a toast, “here we are.”
Alisa moved toward the sink, grabbing antiseptic and gauze. Her voice was lower now. “Are you in real trouble?”
Knox went quiet.
And that—that—made her spine straighten.
“I handled it,” he said after a pause. “They started it. I finished it.”
She turned to face him fully, her gaze narrowing. “Why’d you come here?”
There was blood on his collar. A smear near his cheekbone. His knuckles looked worse than his lip.
But his eyes—those chaotic, ocean-colored eyes—were steady.
“You’re the only person who makes me stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Running. Drinking. Fighting.” His voice went lower. “Pretending I don’t feel anything.”
She swallowed. “That sounds like a you problem.”
“Yeah, well. It was a me problem. Until I met you.”
Alisa rolled her eyes. “God, you’re such a mess.”
“I know,” he said, without even pretending to be sorry. “But I’m your mess.”
Her fingers twitched.
She hated him for that. For how easily he said things. For how soft he made her without asking permission. For knowing where she kept the Band-Aids without ever needing directions. For showing up, always, no matter how many times she pushed.
He leaned forward suddenly, a little unsteady. “You gonna patch me up, lawyer lady, or just glare at me until I bleed out?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
But she was already stepping between his legs, already reaching for his chin, already cleaning the cut above his brow with a touch she wished didn’t linger.
“You’re lucky this isn’t deeper,” she murmured.
“I’m lucky you didn’t slam the door in my face.”
“You deserved it.”
“I probably did.”
She met his eyes.
The air shifted.
The drunken bravado dimmed, just for a second. And in its place: something wounded. Something raw. Something real.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want to be your emergency contact,” she whispered.
“You’re not,” he said, rougher now. “You’re the one person I actually want to see. Even when everything’s fucked.”
She looked away. “You can’t keep showing up like this.”
“I won’t.”
“You said that last time.”
“Then I lied. And I’m sorry.”
His hand landed over hers. Rough, bruised, warm.
She froze.
“You scare the shit out of me,” he said.
That? That made her look at him again.
“You walk into a courtroom like you own the place. Like nothing could touch you. And then I show up—drunk, bloody, a goddamn disaster—and you still let me in.”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know why I do.”
“I think you do.”
“I can’t save you, Knox.”
“I don’t want saving. I just want you.”
Her heart kicked.
The silence stretched.
“I’m not one of your conquests,” she said.
“I know.”
“You don’t get to flirt your way into this. Into me.”
“I’m not flirting,” he said, and it was the first time all night that he sounded sober. “I’m begging.”
Alisa took a breath. Then another. Then—
“Let me see your hand.”
He held it out.
It was worse up close. Split knuckles. Bone-deep scrapes. She worked in silence, wrapping each finger, each joint, with clinical precision.
But her hands shook.
He noticed.
“Why do you let me in?” he asked again.
“Because you look at me like I’m not a cold bitch,” she said. “Like I’m not impossible to love.”
He didn’t hesitate. “You’re not.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
He leaned in then, closer than she meant to allow, breath brushing her cheek. “And what I don’t know yet? I want to.”
She hated how her pulse jumped.
“You’re drunk,” she whispered.
“Drunk on you, maybe.”
She huffed. “God, you’re unbearable.”
He smiled. “And yet.”
Their faces were too close now. She could smell the whiskey. The blood. The exhaustion. But also the way he’d shaved this morning. The citrus tang of his shampoo. The fact that his gaze had stopped flickering. He was holding still—for her.
“Tell me to leave,” he said softly. “I will.”
She didn’t.
She looked at his lip. At his hand. At the bruises. And then at her own traitorous fingers where they still rested on his wrist.
“You need to sleep this off.”
“I’ll take the couch.”
“It’s uncomfortable.”
“Better than bleeding in an alley.”
“I hate that I believe you.”
“I hate that I made you believe it.”
She sighed again. Then she grabbed a pillow from the hall closet, a blanket from the back of the couch, and set them down in front of him like a warning.
He didn’t move.
“Go lie down,” she said.
Still, he didn’t move.
“Knox.”
“I want to kiss you.”
She stiffened.
“Don’t,” she said. “Not like this.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Then—finally—he moved. He walked to the couch without stumbling. Laid down without protest. And when she turned off the light and went back to her room, she didn’t close the door all the way.
At 3:17 a.m., she woke up to the sound of footsteps.
She sat up.
Knox stood in the doorway, shirtless now, looking lost and guilty and tired.
“I had a nightmare,” he said.
“You’re not five.”
“I know.”
She studied him. “Come here.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just padded across the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“You want me to leave?” he asked.
“No.”
“You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want, lawyer lady?”
She reached for his good hand, tugged him gently toward her. “Stay. Just for tonight.”
“Okay.”
He slid under the blanket beside her, movements slow. Careful. Like he was afraid she’d change her mind.
She didn’t.
They lay there, not touching, but not quite apart.
And in the silence that followed, she heard it—the softest whisper from the dark:
“You make me want to be good.”
Her heart cracked open.
And still—she said nothing.
But she didn’t let go of his hand, either.