Page 40 of Knot Your Sugar

"Just through the end of the festival," he says, his gaze steady on mine over the rim of his own mug. "Then it’s back to the city. Back to the grind."

"You don’t sound thrilled about it."

He huffs a quiet breath, then nods. "I used to love it. Everything moving fast, always something happening, always people needing rescuing. Felt like I was doing something important." He sets his mug down. "But then there are days… weeks… when it feels like all you’re doing is running from one fire to the next, never really catching your breath."

His expression shifts, softening with something unguarded. "Lately," he admits, his voice dropping a little, "I’ve been finding myself thinking more about what I might be missing bynotbeing in a place like Lakeview. The quiet. The community. The chance to actually… breathe."

The honesty in his words hangs in the air. I take a sip of tea, the floral warmth doing little to calm the sudden acceleration of my pulse. His vulnerability is… disarming. And incredibly attractive.

"It must be intense," I say, trying to imagine his life in the city.

"Yep." A simple, though very fitting response. He leans back, stretching his long legs out, and the couch suddenly feels evensmaller. "Though for all my complaining, I have to admit there’s a satisfaction in knowing you're saving lives. You know, feeling… needed."

"Yeah. I guess that kind of purpose helps you get through the grind, huh?" I say, my eyes fixed on my tea. The warmth of the mug doesn’t quite reach the heaviness settling in my chest. "It must be incredible, having that. Knowing what you do actually matters."

I set the mug down, suddenly restless. I cross to the window and look out at the quiet street below.

"You okay, Elena?" Cole’s voice is low, careful.

"Yeah… I just…" I inhale slowly. "I was thinking about my mom."

"What about her?"

"She used to be a wedding singer," I say, my voice steadier now. "Not famous, but she loved it. She’d come home lit up from the inside, talking about how she got to make someone’s big day a little more magical." A small smile flickers, half memory, half ache. "She always said there was no better feeling than working to bring people joy. It wasn’t just a job to her, it was purpose. And back then… life felt kind of enchanted. Full of light."

I pause, the smile fading from my voice. "But that was before…"

I hear the couch creak. He stands, and I hear him move closer. Then he's here. Close, but not touching. Just offering his presence.

"Before what, Elena?" His voice is low, gentle.

"Before my father left," I whisper. The confession feels like tearing open an old wound. "She had to give up her dreams. Took whatever work she could, cleaning houses, waiting tables… three jobs at once sometimes. Just to keep us going."

I swallow against the sting in my throat.

"I’m so sorry, Elena," he says, and there's no pity in it. Just understanding.

"It was a long time ago," I say, trying for a lightness I don’t feel.

"Doesn’t always make it hurt any less," he replies gently.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, my fingers reach for his. He meets me halfway, his hand wrapping around mine. Steady, warm, certain.

"I'm sure she's proud of you. What you're building, what you've accomplished."

I glance up at him, and in that moment, everything else falls away. There’s desire in his eyes, yes, but something else too. Tender. Real. A rush of heat blooms under my skin, sparked by the sudden stutter of my heart.

"I… I should probably go," he says, though his thumb keeps brushing across my knuckles like he doesn’t quite mean it.

"Should you?" My voice is barely more than breath.

His other hand rises, his knuckles grazing my jaw in the lightest touch, sending a shiver through me. "If I stay…" he begins, eyes searching mine.

"Stay," I whisper.

That one word breaks the fragile restraint we were clinging to. His lips find mine, and the rest of the world disappears. The kiss is soft at first, reverent, but then his hands find my face, and the kiss turns hungry.

My hands slide up into his hair as he draws me closer. The kiss tastes like chamomile and possibility, an attraction that defies logic and medication. When we part, breathless and wide-eyed, he leans his forehead against mine. "Are you sure?" he asks, voice husky with restraint.

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