Page 73 of Knot My Type

His smile is soft, understanding. "No regrets?"

"None," I answer immediately, and I mean it. "Well, maybe one small one."

His eyebrows rise in question.

"I wish I'd been brave enough to leave Marcus sooner. Wish I hadn't wasted so much time trying to make something work that was never going to work."

"Hey." Kael's voice is gentle but firm. "You left when you were ready to leave. You can't regret the timing of your own courage."

The words hit deep, settling into a place in my chest that sometimes still carries traces of old guilt and self-doubt. He's right, of course. I did the best I could with the tools and knowledge I had at the time. The fact that I eventually found the strength to choose myself, to choose better, is what matters.

"Besides," he continues with a grin that transforms his usually serious face, "if you'd left sooner, you might not have ended up here. The timing had to be exactly what it was for all of this to work out."

"You think we were destined to find each other?" I ask, curious about his perspective on fate and timing and the mysterious forces that bring people together.

"I think," he says carefully, "that some connections are strong enough to survive whatever circumstances try to keep them apart. Whether you call that destiny or luck or just theuniverse having a sense of humor, I don't really care. I'm just grateful it happened."

The sentiment echoes something I've felt but never quite articulated—the sense that finding them wasn't just good fortune but something deeper, more fundamental. Like we were all incomplete pieces that only made sense when fitted together.

A knock on the office door interrupts my philosophical musings, and Fen's head appears in the opening.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, "but we just got a call from the Morrison account. They want to move up their security assessment to next week, and they're asking if we can expand the scope to include their satellite offices."

The Morrison account is our biggest client to date—a regional chain of high-end retail stores that hired us after a series of break-ins at their competitors' locations. It's exactly the kind of contract that establishes credibility and opens doors to other large corporate clients.

"That's great," I say, already shifting into business mode. "Do they want a new proposal, or are they expanding the existing contract?"

"New proposal," Fen confirms. "And they want it by Friday."

I glance at the calendar on my desk, mentally calculating deadlines and workload. "I can have a draft ready by Wednesday if you can get me the technical specs by tomorrow morning."

"Already working on it," he assures me. "Rhys is handling the site surveys, and Kael's updating the risk assessment protocols."

This is how we work now—seamlessly, efficiently, each of us contributing our strengths to create something larger and more successful than any of us could manage alone. It's partnership in the truest sense, built on mutual respect and complementary skills and the kind of trust that only comes from knowing someone completely.

"I should get back to work then," I say, already reaching for the Morrison file.

"Actually," Fen says, his expression shifting to something more personal, "there's something else we wanted to talk to you about. All of us together."

Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. "Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," he assures me quickly. "Better than fine. But we have a proposition for you."

The word sends a little flutter through my stomach, though I'm not sure whether it's anticipation or anxiety. "What kind of proposition?"

"The kind that's better discussed in the living room with all of us present," he says with a small smile. "When you're ready to take a break from work."

Curiosity wars with professional responsibility, but the Morrison proposal isn't going anywhere, and the mysterious tone of Fen's voice suggests this is important.

"Now works," I say, saving my work and following him downstairs.

The living room has been transformed since this morning, I notice immediately. Candles glow on the mantle and side tables, filling the space with warm light and the scent of vanilla and cedar. Rhys is arranging fresh flowers—where did he get fresh flowers on a rainy Tuesday?—while Kael fidgets with something small in his hands.

All three of them look nervous, which is unusual enough to set my own nerves on edge.

"Okay," I say, settling onto the couch with careful composure. "What's going on?"

They exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them before Rhys moves to sit beside me, Fen takes thechair across from us, and Kael remains standing, whatever he's holding still hidden in his palm.

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