Page 109 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"Starving. Emotional confrontations before breakfast should be illegal."
The diner is authentic Americana—red vinyl booths, checkerboard floors, and a jukebox that probably still plays actual records. The hostess, barely eighteen and clearly overwhelmed by the festival crowd, nearly drops her menus when we approach.
"Table for two, please," I request. "Somewhere with a view if possible."
Her eyes dart between us—recognition flickering. The Rebel Queen is famous enough, but add my face from business magazines and we become a story.
"Would you prefer the private dining room? It's quieter, but still has windows to the square."
"Perfect."
She leads us through the main diner, conversations stopping like dominoes falling. Whispers rise in our wake—is that, couldn't be, definitely is, oh my god—while phones appear with practiced casualness.
The private room is exactly right—windows on two walls providing views while maintaining distance from the most aggressive gawkers. Velvet slides into the booth with practiced grace, and I follow on the same side rather than across.
"Cozy," she observes as my thigh presses against hers.
"Strategic positioning."
"For what?"
"Optimal feeding angles."
She laughs, head dropping to my shoulder for a moment. "You're ridiculous."
The waitress appears—different from the hostess, older and more composed despite the way her eyes widen at our proximity.
"Coffee to start?"
"Please," we say in unison, then Velvet continues, "And can we see the entire menu? I want to try everything."
"Everything?"
"It's my first small-town festival." She practically vibrates with enthusiasm. "I want the full experience. Pancakes with real maple syrup. Eggs from chickens with names. Bacon from pigs who lived their best lives."
The waitress smiles, charmed. "Our farmer's breakfast has all that plus homemade biscuits and gravy."
"Two of those," I decide. "And fresh orange juice."
"Apple cider," Velvet corrects. "It's October."
"Apple cider," I amend, and the waitress disappears with a knowing smile.
"This place is perfect," Velvet sighs, gazing out at vendors setting up displays. "I always wanted to do this—visit some tiny town during peak fall, take ridiculous photos, eat too much pie."
"Why didn't you?"
"With who? Knox would have called it frivolous. Malcolm would have analyzed the nutritional content of everything. Adyani..." She trails off. "Adyani might have enjoyed it, but from Dubai, not in person."
"And now?"
"Now I have a pack that plans surprise festival visits and wears color coordination like it's our job." She turns those dark eyes on me. "Speaking of the pack, I love the glass house."
"Good, because it's yours."
"It's the twins' family place."
"Which they're giving to you. Us. The pack." I trace patterns on her hand where it rests on the table. "Unless you'd prefer somewhere else?"
