Page 80 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
“Not since earlier,” I admit. My stomach growls right on cue, which earns me matching smirks from both of them.
The air shifts around us—soft teasing, quiet clinks of plates, the hiss of butter in the pan. It’s absurdly domestic, and I can’t stop cataloguing it: Theo’s low whistle as he slices bread, Dane’s casual hum while he stirs, the way the light from the stove pools gold against the cooler blues of the windows. I’ve been in rougher places, lonelier places. And if you’d told me a month ago that I’d be here, leg busted up, wrapped in a blanket with an omega sleeping against me while my packmates fuss in the kitchen… I’d have said you were telling a fairy tale.
Turns out, I like this fairy tale.
Cam stirs when Dane sets a plate on the low table near us, the smell of melted cheese and fresh bread cutting through the air. She blinks up at me first, disoriented for a heartbeat before her eyes track toward the kitchen.
“You’re back,” she says, voice scratchy with sleep.
Theo turns with a grin. “And bearing gifts.”
She shifts to sit up, and I steady her with one arm until she’s settled with the blanket still wrapped around her. “Smells amazing,” she admits.
“Eat before it cools,” Dane instructs, in his usual don’t-argue tone. She takes the plate without protest, tearing into the bread first. Her eyes flutter shut for a second. “Okay, that’s good,” she says around the bite.
We all end up clustered, plates balanced on knees, banter flowing in easy currents. Theo tells a half-exaggerated story about nearly dropping the peach preserves in the water; Dane claims he would’ve dived in after them; I point out that would’ve been the dumbest possible way to get hypothermia. Cam laughs into her mug of tea, and the sound sinks straight into the part of me that’s been holding tension since getting injured.
When the plates are cleared and the last of the tea’s gone, Theo glances toward the windows. The light outside is already dimming, that summer twilight where the world feels like it’s holding its breath. “Too late for a proper project,” he says, “but we could do something cozy.”
“Cards?” Dane offers.
“Or a fire,” Theo counters. “Tell stories until we can’t keep our eyes open.”
Cam’s smile is small but real. “That sounds… perfect.”
I lean back into the lounger, blanket still draped over both of us, and watch them start to gather what we’ll need—cards, matches, an extra quilt from the hall cupboard. My leg throbs in the background, but for once I don’t curse it. Without it, I mightnot have been right here, right now. And I wouldn’t trade this for anything.
Chapter fifty-eight
Cam
The room smells like warmth — buttered bread lingering in the air, a hint of cinnamon from the tea, and beneath it, the grounding mix of the three alphas’ scents threading through the space. It’s not oppressive, it’s… safe. Like a blanket you didn’t realize you needed until it’s wrapped around you.
Theo gets the fire going with a confidence that makes me think he’s done it a hundred times before. He crouches near the hearth, coaxing the flame from ember-orange to steady gold. Dane’s by the table, shuffling a deck of cards with a smooth, practiced flick. Jamie’s still stretched out on the lounger, a blanket over his legs, eyes following every movement in the room like he’s cataloguing it for later.
I tuck my legs under me on the couch, cradling my tea. The fire pops, sending a small shower of sparks up the chimney. The sound makes me smile — it’s such a simple, human noise, the kind that belongs to nights without fear.
Theo settles beside me with the deck Dane’s passed over, his knee brushing mine just enough to share heat. “We’re playingsomething easy,” he announces. “Cam’s still recovering, Jamie’s still pretending to be injured—”
“Pretending?” Jamie scoffs, straightening up. “I’d like to see you limp across the room on this leg.”
Theo grins. “I’d carry you like the delicate flower you are.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “What are we playing?”
Dane drops into the armchair opposite, stretching his long legs out. “Rummy. Simple, competitive, and I’m good at it.”
We play in rounds, the fire snapping and hissing behind us, the cards soft from years of use. I lose the first hand miserably — distracted by the way the light flickers against Theo’s jaw, the slow curl of a smile from Dane when he beats us. Jamie wins the second game by pure luck and looks smug enough to make Theo demand a rematch.
Somewhere between the third and fourth rounds, I realize my shoulders have relaxed entirely. The tight knot in my stomach from earlier is gone, replaced with an easy warmth. I sip my tea slowly, just to have an excuse to watch them — their banter, the casual way they toss cards down, the glances they throw me to make sure I’m still comfortable.
When Dane leans back after a win, stretching his arms behind his head, the firelight catches in his eyes, turning them molten. “Not bad for a night in,” he says.
Theo nods toward me. “Better than not bad. We’ve got food, warmth, company. We’re not on edge for once.”
Jamie hums in agreement. “If I had a drink in hand, I’d call it perfect.”
Itisperfect. I hadn’t thought I’d get this — not here, not now, not after the way things fell apart in the city. But here we are, in a half-fixed safehouse with creaky floors and mismatched furniture, and I feel more at home than I have in years.
