Page 64 of Knot on the Market

The answer is never. In my adult life, I've never had an unmanaged heat. Everything was always scheduled, controlled, minimized.

"I..." I swallow hard. "I don't really do heats. I mean, I manage them. Medically."

Sadie's expression grows soft with something that might be sympathy. "Oh, sweetheart. No wonder you're feeling scattered. Your body's trying to catch up with what you actually need instead of what you've been telling it to need."

"Is it that obvious?" I ask, mortified.

"Only to another omega," Sadie says kindly. "And only because I've been there. Your scent's been cycling through interested-to-overwhelmed-to-wanting all morning. Classic pre-heat pattern for someone who's been suppressing for too long."

The clinical way she describes it helps somehow, making it feel less like personal failure and more like biology that just needs understanding.

"Will you be okay for the movie?" she asks.

"Yes, please," I say quickly. "I need the distraction."

"Understood." Sadie links her arm through mine with easy familiarity. "Then let's go judge Ryan Gosling's fashion choices and eat our weight in movie theater popcorn."

As we walk toward her little green hatchback, I try not to think about the nest waiting upstairs, surrounded by stolen shirts and the lingering evidence of dreams I can't quite forget.

The car smells like Sadie—honey soap and lilies, with a hint of eucalyptus. Safe omega scent that doesn't trigger the same biological chaos as alpha presence. I sink into the passenger seat and let myself relax for the first time in days.

"Thank you," I say as she starts the engine, meaning it for more than just the movie invitation.

"Thank you for letting me," Sadie says simply. "I've been wanting to get to know you better since you moved here."

The casual way she includes me in the category of people worth caring about makes something warm settle in my chest.

As we drive through Honeyridge Falls toward the highway, I catch glimpses of familiar places through the car windows. The fire station where Dean works. The bookstore where Julian spends his quiet afternoons. The lumberyard where Callum builds things that last.

The sight of these places—ordinary buildings that have become significant because of the people inside them—makes my chest tight with something I'm not ready to name.

Want.

Not just physical want, though that's definitely part of it. But the deeper want of belonging somewhere, of having people who notice when you're struggling and show up with coffee and flowers and patient understanding.

"Penny for your thoughts," Sadie says as we merge onto the highway.

"Just thinking about how different this is," I admit. "Life here, I mean. People here."

"Different how?"

"Better," I say simply. "More real. In LA, everything felt like performance. But here..."

"Here people bring you flowers because it's Tuesday," Sadie finishes with a smile. "And fix your porch because it needs fixing. And worry about you when you seem overwhelmed by good things instead of bad ones."

"Exactly." I settle deeper into the passenger seat, watching mountains and farmland roll past. "I never thought I wanted small-town life, but maybe I just never knew what it actually looked like."

The cinema is everything Sadie promised. A small, slightly shabby building with red velvet seats and sticky floors that speak to decades of tradition. The afternoon crowd is mostly other women our age, groups of friends who've decided that Tuesday afternoon Ryan Gosling inThe Notebookis exactly what their week needs.

We load up on popcorn and drinks, finding seats in the middle section where we have a good view. As the lights dim and the opening credits roll, I let myself sink into the simple pleasure of watching something purely for entertainment.

"Oh my God," Sadie whispers during one of Noah's intense stares, "how does he make reading a letter look that attractive?"

"It's a gift," I whisper back, "like some people can sing, he can brood romantically."

We dissolve into quiet giggles that earn us gentle shushing from the row behind us, but I can't bring myself to care. When was the last time I laughed during a movie instead of analyzing its box office potential?

The movie is exactly what I need, predictable in the best way, with enough genuine charm to keep us engaged and enough ridiculous moments to keep us laughing. But even asI'm enjoying the entertainment, my body keeps reminding me of what I'm trying not to think about.