Page 93 of Knot Your Sugar Rush
“Help me up and I can walk to her,” I say softly. Dane and Theo don’t tease. They just help.
The trip down is slower than I want, every step dragging like an anchor. But Dane keeps just ahead of me, adjusting his pace to mine without making it obvious. Theo brings up the rear, not hovering, not pitying—just solid. Like if I fell, he’d catch me before I hit the ground.
The trail winds through narrow cuts of rock, sunbaked and smelling of lichen and dust. My leg stutters on one sharp twist, and before I can stumble, Dane’s hand is there. Steady. Firm. I mutter a thanks, low and rough. He only nods, like it’s nothing.
When the trees thicken again, the shadows cool the path. The loam eases the pounding in my knee. I catch the smell of camp before I see it—woodsmoke, faint but steady, and the lingering scent of cooking.
We step into the clearing, and Cam is there by the firepit. Her hair’s loose around her shoulders, and when she looks up, her smile hits me harder than I’m ready for. She doesn’t rush me—probably knows better than to put a spotlight on the slow one—but she doesn’t look away either.
Theo drops his pack near the fire, immediately checking straps and gear like he can’t stop moving. Dane rolls his shoulders like he carried half of my load too—which he probably did.
I lower myself onto one of the logs, stretching my leg toward the fire with a groan that feels pulled from my bones. Cam drifts over, a mug in her hands. Steam curls up, carrying the scent of herbs, earth, and something sweet that drags me right back to the ridge. She presses it into my palms, her fingers brushing mine, lingering just long enough to make me wonder if she needs more.
“Thanks,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I intend. The word’s bigger than the drink, and she knows it.
Her smile is small, private. She tucks her blanket around her shoulders and sits beside me. Dane takes the other side, poking at the fire, while Theo finally joins us on the other side.
The flames crackle. Pine smoke sharpens the air. The quiet hum of being here—together—fills the gaps where words would’ve been.
My leg aches and I’m worn down to the bone, but it’s worth it.
Chapter seventy-two
Cam
The fire is more than a fire—it’s a heartbeat.
Low flames curl over the logs, sending faint hisses of sap into the air, each spark rising like it wants to join the stars. The crackle has a rhythm that feels as steady as breathing, wrapping around the four of us and stitching the night together.
I sit cross-legged on the blanket, mug cradled in both hands, letting the heat seep into my fingers. Steam rises, carrying the scent of pine needles steeped in water—Theo’s idea of tea, sharp but comforting. My back is warm from the fire, my face kissed by cooler air, and beside me I feel the faint shift of Jamie settling deeper into his blanket.
Dane sits on my other side, knees bent, forearms draped over them, his steady presence an anchor in the restless night. Theo sits across the fire, his long frame half in shadow, the glow of the flames gilding his cheekbones.
Jamie’s smile hooks just enough to look dangerous. “You know,” he says, “Theo’s fire tea is much better than his campfire stew.”
I glance up. “Campfire stew?”
Theo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re not telling that story.”
“Oh, we are,” Jamie insists, eyes bright. “Picture this: a younger Theo deciding we didn’t need recipes, because he could ‘feel his way through it.’”
Theo rolls his eyes. “It’s called improvising.”
Jamie ignores him. “What we got was charcoal water and potato chunks tough enough to break teeth.”
Dane chuckles, low and rough. “And then the smoke.”
Jamie grins wider. “Enough smoke to signal every ranger in the district. I think they thought we were burning the forest down.”
Theo tips his head back with a groan, though a smile tugs at his mouth. “I got us out of a fine, though.”
“Only because one of the rangers thought you were cute,” Jamie fires back, and Dane snorts.
I hide my grin behind my mug, but inside it blooms, warm and liquid, spreading lower than my chest. Their laughter tugs at something in me I’ve been trying not to name. I don’t have to speak much to feel included—their voices, their history, the way they fold me into their circle without hesitation.
This isn’t like being with Eric, like the city, where warmth had to be earned, where belonging could be snatched away in a breath. This is different. This is easy. And the ease itself makes my body hum, my heat curling low and steady, not sharp but simmering like embers.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Jamie says, his gaze catching mine over the fire.
