Page 14 of Knot the Last Chapter

I glance at my phone, half expecting her to have messaged again, but the screen is dark.

Probably curled up. Resting. Safe.

I exhale and lean my head back, watching the way the sunlight shifts across the ceiling. It’s quiet here. Still. The storm inside me, though—not even close to over.

And I wouldn’t want it to be.

Not with her.

Chapter eight

Lila

The kitchen smells like cinnamon toast and something floral—probably whatever herbal blend Mom’s decided is today’s cure-all. She sets a mug down in front of me, steam curling up into the early afternoon light. “Chamomile. With clover honey and a dash of something special.”

“Is the something special a sleeping draft?” I ask, lifting it to my nose and sniffing suspiciously.

She smirks. “No. But I won’t lie—it crossed my mind when I saw your face this morning.”

I groan, flopping dramatically over the table. “I didn’t sleep. My brain was too busy arguing with itself about opening lines and alpha mystery texters and the rising threat level in my own bloodstream.”

Mom hums, sliding into the chair across from me with her own mug. “I was wondering when we’d get to that last bit.”

I lift my head enough to give her a sidelong look. “You noticed?”

“Sweetheart, I noticed the second you started turning pink every time your phone buzzed.”

“Gross,” I mumble.

“Normal,” she corrects gently. “Unavoidable, eventually. And not something to be ashamed of.”

Her voice is soft, and I let it settle over me like a favorite blanket. This is one of the reasons I came back home, instead of trying to crash with a friend. Not just for the slower pace, or the space to write, or the small-town charm I used to scoff at. But for this—warmth without condition. A person who knows me better than I know myself.

“It’s not even like I know him,” I say, staring into my mug. “It’s just texts.”

“That’s how it starts. Connection can be a slow burn or a spark. Either way, it catches.”

I glance at her, wary. “You don’t think it’s weird? That I’m texting someone I’ve never met?”

Mom smiles faintly, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “You’re not the first omega to connect before imprinting. Or the first person to need comfort after losing something big.”

Oof. That one lands squarely.

My job. My city life. The future I thought I was building, gone in a single HR meeting and a box of desk supplies.

“I wasn’t trying to find someone,” I say. “I was trying to write a joke. A crime joke.”

“A crime joke that led to a text exchange with a charming stranger who makes you smile like you’re seventeen again.”

“I do not smile like I’m seventeen,” I protest.

She just lifts an eyebrow. The eyebrow of maternal truth.

I take a sip of tea to hide my grin. “Okay, fine. I might be smiling. But I’m not imprinting, or bonding, or catching feelings. He’s just…a distraction.”

“Distractions can be lovely,” she says. “But they can also lead you places you aren’t ready to go.”

I nod, slowly. “You’re worried.”