Page 65 of Knot Your Sugar

Truth is, we’re all probably trying to look less like bewildered puppies and more like the competent alphas we’re supposed to be.

"Let’s go get him."

We navigate toward James, consciously giving Elena’s workstation a wide berth.

James spots us approaching. He makes a rather unconvincing show of checking his watch, then excuses himself from the workshop with a casual air that doesn’t quite mask the tension humming in his shoulders. He meets us near a quiet cluster of empty vendor tents, the faint scent of burnt sugar and anxiety clinging to him.

"Well?" he asks the moment we’re out of earshot of the crowd. "What’s the verdict? Did you talk to her? Did you tell her? Is she on board?"

I exhale slowly, only now realizing I’d been holding my breath. The words feel dry, bitter. "She shut down. Completely," I say, the memory of her reaction twisting something in my gut. "Denied being an omega. Said we were wrong about the scent match. That we were just... projecting."

James’s eyebrows shoot skyward. "Projecting? But that’s—"

"Impossible, yes," Dorian interjects. "Our individual reactions, the specificity of the scent notes we all detected… it’s too congruent to be a 'projection'."

"She’s scared," I say, the image of her face vivid in my mind. "Terrified, more like. This is all hitting her at once… It’s a hell of a lot to process in one go. Especially with the final tomorrow."

James runs a hand through his hair, dislodging several artful waves and looking decidedly less like a charming rogue and more like a startled colt. "Okay. So… what’s Plan B? Because Plan A just went down in flames. Spectacularly, from the sound of it."

"I don't know," I admit, a fresh wave of failure washing over me. "I told her we should all talk tonight, but she declined. Vehemently. Said she needs to focus on the competition. Demanded space."

Dorian nods slowly, his expression thoughtful, though I can see a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Understandable, from her perspective. But, given the potential biological imperatives at play, hardly optimal."

"The point is, she’s not buying it. Or, at least, that’s the story she’s sticking to. Adamantly."

"Maybe I should speak with her," Dorian suggests after a moment, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "I have been… meaning to discuss a separate matter with her anyway. It might provide a more… natural opening."

The almost imperceptible tightening around Dorian’s mouth, the slightly evasive shift of his gaze, makes it clear he’s not about to elaborate on this ‘separate matter’ right now. Fine. Secrets. We all have them. Instead, my mind, true to form, starts mapping out contingency plans, escape routes, worst-case scenarios. Old habits die hard, especially when your instincts are screaming that you’re walking into a burning house.

"She might refuse to talk to you too," I warn. "She seemed really emphatic about wanting to be left alone."

"Then we adapt," Dorian replies with a calm assurance that should be my trademark. "We regroup. We strategize."

"She’s stubborn as all hell," James mutters, though there’s a grudging note of admiration in his voice. "But she’s also pragmatic. If sheisjust starting to present, if sheisabout to… you know…" He makes a vague, slightly panicked gesture. "She’ll need toreallyunderstand what that means for tomorrow."

Dorian and James launch into a frantic discussion of approach strategies, alternative scenarios, potential logistical nightmares. Their voices fade into a murmur as my own thoughts begin to spiral. Elena’s face when I told her. That flicker of raw fear, quickly masked by anger, defiance. The way she completely shut down... I recognize that self-protective instinct. It’s the same oneI’ve relied on my entire career.Don’t get too close. Don’t get distracted. Focus on the job at hand.

And that's when it hits me. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe the universe is giving me an out. The festival ends tomorrow. I'm going back to the city soon after. A clean break. I can just go back to my normal life: saving people, doing what I’m good at, what I understand. No distractions. No emotional entanglements. No messy feelings.

No Elena.

The thought is surprisingly painful. A dull, hollow ache that spreads through my chest, making it hard to breathe. Is this… is this what meeting your scent match feels like? This terrifying mixture of yearning and uncertainty?

And if it is… how the hell am I supposed to do my job? How can I be the firefighter I need to be, the leader my crew depends on, when a significant part of my brain is constantly orienting itself towardherlike a compass needle?

I can’t do both. I can’t serve the public, can’t fulfill my duty, and serve…her. Someone would get shortchanged. And in my line of work, a single misjudgment, a moment of distraction, could be fatal.

"Cole?" James’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "You with us, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

I blink, forcing myself to refocus, to shove the fear, the confusion, back down where it belongs. "Yeah. Sorry. Just… thinking through contingencies."

Dorian studies me for a long, unnervingly perceptive moment. "You’re considering leaving, aren’t you?" he asks quietly, his voice devoid of judgment. "After the festival."

"It… it crossed my mind," I admit, the words feeling like a betrayal, even as I say them. "That was the plan when I first came here anyway."

"Running away won’t solve anything," Dorian says, his voice still quiet.

"It’s not running," I retort, my own voice harsher than I intend. "It’s being practical. Realistic. I have responsibilities in the city. A career. People who are counting on me to be focused, to be… present."

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