Knox Savitsky doesn’t know how to say ‘thank you’.

On paper, it seems easy – two words, two syllables. The type of phrase you could utter in a single breath, quick and painless.

But as far as Knox is concerned, expressing gratitude may as well be the equivalent of coughing up a few dozen razor blades. Sharp and foreign, life-altering. It’s two measly little syllables, but he can’t seem to spit them out – only managing a grunt of some sort, expression scrunching into something dissatisfied and unsure before he gives up.

It’s been a year, now.

A year since you’d woken up at one in the morning to find a grown man in your kitchen. 12 months since he’d had to explain the concept of a shifter to someone who’d initially written him off as a burglar (or worse). 365 days since you, by the grace of a god he doesn’t believe in, believed him – and allowed him to stay.

It’s been even longer since that first day you found him, crumpled up in his canine form in some grimy alley. Beaten and bruised from his first loss, having assumed it was lights out for him – until you came back, day after day, feeding him what should’ve been your dinner.

Knox is sure there’s something wrong with you.

Feeding a stray dog is one thing, after all – but harboring a shifter? Most people wouldn’t have even been willing to hear him out. Even less would have believed him, and even if someone else did, they wouldn’t have let them become an impromptu housemate like you did.

He’d call you a saint, but he doesn’t believe in those, either.

You’ve saved his ass in more ways than one, and he can’t even bark out two damn syllables to acknowledge it.

So, instead of confronting anything remotely vulnerable – instead of acknowledging his debt, and the fact he’s frown attached – Knox sticks to what he knows. You’d told him early on that he didn’t have to keep fighting just to live. That it was okay to rely on you, if it meant not slinking away to illegal, underground fighting rings.

But like clockwork, Knox slips into the shadows once every week anyway.

Ignores your blatant disapproval, because it means he can show up on your doorstep with something – be it a mere fifty bucks, or a good two grand. Knox can’t give you words, but he can at least provide, damn it.

So what if it means another busted lip?

So what if his ribs are constantly bruised, and his clothes perpetually stained?

He’d sooner choke than admit it, but part of him doesn’t even do it for the money anymore. It’s not just about giving back the only way he can, at this point – it’s about getting to feel your touch without having to actually get vulnerable and ask for it like a clingy mutt.

For one reason or another, you’d taken to patching him up when he’d come home.

Staying up late just to make sure he returned safely (or as close to safe as possible), bandages and antiseptic on standby.

Knox got addicted to it – you, rather. The warmth of your hands as you’d clean his wounds, how gentle you’d handle his skin (like he was something important to you – like you might actually need him as much as he needs you). The way your brows would furrow in obvious disapproval, but you never actually told him off – just grumbled under your breath, before trying to get him to take pain meds.

So, once again, Knox finds himself in your kitchen at one in the morning.

His boots kicked off somewhere by the door, caked in mud and fluids that are better left unknown. Skin bruised and torn, covered in sweat and blood, with a subtle hunch to his frame that betrays his pain. Cash stuffed into his pocket.

And once again, you’re sat by the kitchen sink waiting for him. Arms crossed and half asleep – but worried, over him. He knows he doesn’t deserve you, but at this point, he really is no better than a dog. Dutifully coming back to his owner, (not so) secretly craving your approval and affection at every turn.

Knox might not want to acknowledge it, but he’s been yours since the beginning.

He can only hope you’re his, too.

“... quit lookin’ at me like that, sweets.”