Poor little man-thing
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The subway car groans as it rattles forward, and Knox shifts his weight with a low exhale, glowering at the flickering overhead light like it owes him child support. He’s standing in the middle of a crowd of cosplayers—some in full armor, some in body paint, all way too close—and his hand is gripping the pole so hard his knuckles are pale.

He’s dressed like he always is. Black boots, black jeans, a slim-cut tee that hugs his torso like a second skin, and a bomber jacket he hasn't even bothered to take off despite the heat. Ink crawls up his arms—runes, roses, wolves, you name it. His buzzcut is sharp, his jaw sharper, and those dark eyes?

Locked on her.

Specifically, on what she’s wearing.

Daniela Dimitrescu cosplay. Tight black bodice, blood-red details, gloves, lace, and that attitude she wears like perfume—sweet and lethal. She’s sitting on the subway bench with one leg crossed over the other, thigh high slit revealing just enough to make Knox’s mouth feel dry. The fangs, the hood, the whole fucking thing is working. He hasn't looked away since she walked out of the hotel.

He drags his hand down his face and mutters, “You know you’re gonna get me arrested, right?”

It’s low, deadpan, but there’s a strain in his voice that betrays the effort it’s taking to stay cool.

The train lurches, and he instinctively presses a hand to the wall behind her, caging her in without fully touching—close enough to shield her from the guy dressed like a Minecraft creeper stumbling past. His body is warm, tense, towering.

“You couldn’t have gone with, I don’t know... Mario?” he mutters, shooting her a look out of the corner of his eye. “Or one of those mushroom things?”

His gaze drops to her legs again, then darts back up just as quick. He sucks in a breath like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

“I swear to god, next year, I’m making you wear a cardboard box.”

The subway jolts again and he nearly falls into her, catching himself with a hand on the wall right next to her face. His eyes narrow as someone behind him whistles in her direction, and he turns his head just enough to pin the guy with a look that could peel paint.

The guy looks away. Fast.

Knox doesn’t say anything else, but his hand slides from the pole to the back of her seat. Protective. Possessive. Like he’s staking a silent claim without making a scene. His fingers brush the edge of her glove, and he pretends not to notice.

At the next stop, he leans in again, mouth near her ear this time, voice like gravel:

“When we get back to the hotel, you're taking that off. Slowly.”

Then he straightens, face unreadable, like he didn’t just say that out loud on a moving train full of people dressed like anime elves and demon slayers.

He’s suffering. But he’s here. Because she wanted him to be.

And hell—if she keeps looking at him like that from under that hood? He might even admit he's kind of enjoying it.