Page 82 of Knot My Type

The sound of small feet thundering down the hallway jolts me awake at precisely six-thirty in the morning, which means Luna has once again managed to escape from her toddler-proofed bedroom. I hear her voice echoing through the house—a mixture of triumph and mischief that's become the soundtrack of our lives.

"Daddy Rhys! Daddy Rhys! The pancakes aren't making themselves!"

I can't help but smile as I stretch in bed, careful not to wake the three men still sprawled around me in various states of unconsciousness. Five years of early mornings courtesy of our daughter haven't made any of them morning people, though they've all become surprisingly functional when Luna's involved.

"Mommy!" Her voice is getting closer, accompanied by what sounds like a small stampede. "The daddies are being lazy again!"

Before I can respond, my bedroom door bursts open and Luna launches herself onto the bed with the kind of fearlessabandon that gives me heart palpitations on a daily basis. She's wearing mismatched pajamas—one leg striped, one polka-dotted—and her dark curls are sticking up at impossible angles despite my attempts to tame them with a silk pillowcase.

"Good morning, sunshine," I murmur, catching her in a hug before she can accidentally knee anyone in a sensitive area. At four years old, Luna has mastered the art of strategic body placement during her morning bed invasions.

"It's pancake day!" she announces with the kind of enthusiasm most people reserve for winning the lottery. "Daddy Rhys promised yesterday, and promises are very important, right Mommy?"

"Very important," I agree, shooting a pointed look at Rhys, who's now blinking awake with the confused expression of someone who definitely made promises he can't quite remember.

"Did I promise pancakes?" he asks groggily, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

"Chocolate chip pancakes," Luna clarifies with the precision of someone who takes breakfast very seriously. "With whipped cream. And strawberries. And maybe some of those little sprinkles that make everything pretty."

"That's not breakfast, that's dessert," Kael observes, though he's already sitting up and reaching for Luna, who immediately transfers her allegiance to whichever parent is most awake at any given moment.

"Dessert for breakfast is the best kind of breakfast," she declares with four-year-old logic that's hard to argue with.

Fen, who's been awake for the past five minutes but pretending to sleep in hopes of avoiding the early morning chaos, finally opens his eyes with a resigned sigh. "I suppose we should get up before she decides to make breakfast herself again."

The memory of Luna's last independent cooking adventure—which involved flour on every surface of the kitchen and somehow resulted in pancake batter on the ceiling—is enough motivation to get all of us moving.

"I'll start the coffee," I offer, knowing that none of them are fully human before caffeine.

"I'll supervise Luna's outfit selection," Kael volunteers, which is code for 'prevent her from wearing her Halloween costume to preschool again.'

"Pancakes are on me," Rhys says, already mentally calculating ingredient ratios.

"And I'll check the morning briefings," Fen adds, because even five years of domestic bliss haven't cured his compulsive need to start each day by assessing potential threats to our security.

As I make my way to the kitchen, I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror and pause. Five years have changed me in ways both subtle and profound. There are laugh lines around my eyes that weren't there before, and my body carries the soft curves that come from pregnancy and breastfeeding and the kind of contentment that makes you less concerned with magazine-perfect fitness. My hair is longer now, often pulled back in practical styles that can survive toddler hands and writerly deadlines.

But it's my eyes that show the biggest change. There's a confidence there that didn't exist when I first arrived in this house—the settled assurance of someone who knows exactly where they belong.

The kitchen is already warm from the morning sun streaming through the windows, and I start the coffee maker with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious ceremonies. The familiar sounds of my family starting their day drift down from upstairs—Luna's chattering commentaryon wardrobe choices, Kael's patient responses, Rhys humming something off-key in the shower.

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I glance at the screen to see a text from my publisher:Final tour schedule attached. Thirty cities in six weeks. This is going to be huge, Eliana.

My latest novel is getting the kind of promotional push most authors only dream of, complete with major bookstore partnerships, television interviews, and a marketing budget that makes my head spin. It's the culmination of years of building my career, establishing my brand, proving that stories about unconventional love can find mainstream success.

As I look at the tour schedule, all I can think about is six weeks away from morning pancake negotiations and bedtime stories and the daily rhythm of our life together.

"Heavy thoughts for seven in the morning," Fen observes, appearing in the kitchen with his usual silent grace. He's already dressed for the day in the kind of effortlessly professional attire that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine, even at this ungodly hour.

"Just work stuff," I say, turning the phone face-down on the counter. "Nothing that can't wait until after breakfast."

He gives me the kind of look that suggests he knows I'm deflecting, but he doesn't push. Instead, he pours himself coffee and settles at the breakfast bar, opening his laptop to scan through whatever security briefings arrived overnight.

"Anything interesting?" I ask, nodding toward his screen.

"The Henderson contract is moving forward," he says, referencing a potential client who wants to hire their company for a six-month project in Seattle. "They're offering serious money, but it would mean relocating the entire operation."

The casual way he mentions this makes my stomach drop. We've talked about the possibility of expansion before, but always in abstract terms—someday, maybe, if the rightopportunity came along. Now it sounds like 'someday' might be happening whether we're ready or not.

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