Page 86 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
And it is. The rest of the night is all rustling blankets, the murmur of low voices, and the occasional spark from the fire. I don’t remember falling asleep, only the feel of being surrounded — not just by their warmth, but by the quiet certainty that I’m not facing anything alone anymore.
Chapter sixty-five
Dane
The fire is down to coals, casting the cabin in a soft, steady glow. Cam is tucked into the corner of the couch, curled against Jamie’s side, his bad leg propped up and covered. Jamie’s head lolls back in sleep, his arm draped protectively around her. She’s worked her way under his blanket like she belongs there. The sight makes something low in my chest tighten—not with jealousy exactly, but with the warm, stubborn ache of knowing this is right.
Theo isn’t inside. I catch the flicker of lamplight through the small window and find him out on the porch, hunched over the map, elbows braced on the table we dragged out there earlier. The lantern sits low, throwing shadows across the sharp lines of his face, his eyes fixed on the paper like it might finally give up its secrets if he stares hard enough.
“You’ll burn holes in it,” I say quietly, easing the door shut behind me.
He doesn’t look up. “We missed something.” His thumb traces the edge of a drawn ridgeline, then taps a small clearing. “The notes from the database mention a particular soil balance. It’srare, but not impossible to find around here. We just have to narrow the elevation and—”
“—And you’ll work yourself into a frenzy before we get anywhere,” I cut in, leaning on the rail. “It’s late, Theo.”
He finally glances up, the lamplight catching the sharp blue of his eyes. “We don’t have the luxury of time.”
I study him for a moment—the tense set of his shoulders, the stubborn line of his jaw. “This about the flower, or something else?”
His mouth flattens. “Both.”
I wait.
He sighs and pushes the map aside. “You’ve been planning to leave. Big city. Opportunities. I get it. But we can’t keep dancing around it, Dane. If we find the flower… what then? You take off, and we go back to whatever was left before she washed up here?”
I stare at the dark beyond the porch, letting the night sounds fill the quiet—the slow drip of water from the eaves, the soft rustle of leaves in the damp air. “I don’t know,” I admit. “That was the plan. But plans change.”
His gaze sharpens. “You’re sayingshechanges plans.”
“She makes it easy,” I answer before I can stop myself. “Easier than I thought it could be. You, me, Jamie—we’ve been working around each other for years. But with her… it feels like a pack. Like something that works.”
Theo’s eyes soften just a fraction, but his voice stays even. “So why keep one foot out the door?”
Because I’m afraid. Afraid it’s too easy, too good, and that things this good don’t last. But I don’t say that. “Because I’m not sure if it’s right to stay for the wrong reason.”
He leans back, folding his arms. “What if it’s the right reason?”
The question hits harder than I expect. I think about Cam’s laugh earlier, the way she ducked her head when I caught hersmiling at me across the table. I think about how, for the first time in a long while, I’m not restless.
Theo lets me sit with it. Then he says, “I’ll keep looking. I’ll find where that flower grows. But I need to know you’re not halfway gone already.”
“I’m here,” I say finally, and it isn’t a lie. It just isn’t the whole truth.
He nods once, like that’s enough for now, and bends back over the map. I stay a minute longer, watching him work, before heading inside.
Cam and Jamie haven’t moved. She shifts in her sleep as I pass, pressing closer into him, and I have to force myself to keep going to my bunk. My mind should be clear—I’ve always known what I wanted, where I was going next. But tonight, the certainty is gone, replaced by the slow, unwelcome swirl of doubt.
Chapter sixty-six
Cam
The first thing I’m aware of is warmth.
Not the too-hot, too-bright fever warmth of my heat — that’s faded to a low, steady ember — but a softer, heavier kind. Jamie’s chest is solid under my cheek, his arm slung loose around me like it got tired halfway through the night and just stayed there. The steady thump of his heartbeat is slow and reassuring, the kind of sound you could get lost in if you let yourself.
The couch shouldn’t fit two grown adults, but somehow we’ve made it work. His injured leg is propped up on a folded blanket, and I’ve tucked myself along the other side so I’m not crowding him. My blanket’s half on the floor, half under us, but his scent — woodsmoke and something sharp, like the edge of a winter morning — is a better comforter than anything fabric could manage.
I blink toward the window. Pale gold light streaks across the wall, catching the dust motes that drift in lazy spirals. Somewhere outside, a gull calls.
