Page 114 of Less

Right.

Less' knife.

The one he'd washed earlier after unpacking approximately half his life into my condo.

“Um…”

Brielle blinks.

Nick blinks.

Less doesn't even look up from dividing soy sauce packets and arranging takeout containers with military precision.

“Don't touch that,” he says calmly.

“Why?” Brielle asks.

“Because it's sharp.”

Everyone turns and stares at him.

Then at me.

Then back at Less.

Then back at me.

“Girl,” Brielle says slowly, “that is one big knife.”

Then she snorts.

I start laughing so hard I nearly cry.

Because somehow—somehow—this big, protective, slightly insane man has become my normal.

And honestly?

I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's ridiculous how naturally he fits into my life.

Three years ago I would've given anything for this.

Now he's sitting at my kitchen table in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, unpacking dinner and making sure everyone has enough napkins like he's lived here forever.

And maybe that's what gets me.

Not the muscles.

Not the tattoos.

Not even the fact that he's devastatingly handsome.

It's the little things.

The way he automatically puts a pile of my favorite—crab rangoon—on my plate.

The way he keeps checking to make sure I actually eat.