Page 70 of Knot the Last Chapter

I’ve had flings. I’ve had kisses. Nothing like this. Nothing that haunts me in the way she does.

Her scent still lingers, ghosting around the kitchen like a perfume. She’s etched into this house already, and she doesn’teven realize it. I’m pouring flour across the counter again when I hear the creak of the stairs. Light, tentative steps. My body reacts before my mind does, spine straightening, heart picking up pace.

Lila.

She steps into the kitchen wearing a long, oversized sweater that brushes her thighs, and dark leggings clinging to her legs like they were poured onto her skin. Her hair is still damp from the bath, curling at the edges, and her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide in the soft light.

She looks like temptation incarnate. I’m having flashbacks to earlier today, and I realize both times she’s seeking me out. Kitchens and cooking give her a sense of normalcy. I’m safe, and I remind myself that I’ll stay that way, unless she wants to up things a bit.

Her call.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” I manage to keep my voice even.

She gives a tired smile. “Too warm.”

The words settle between us like a challenge. Too warm.

“Hmm.” I cross the space between us, studying her. “You look flushed. Did you catch a chill in the rain?”

“No. Just...” Her eyes flick away. “Residual heat, maybe.”

It’s a tease. And it lands right in my gut.

Still, I grab the clay jar from the cabinet—an old poultice recipe my mom swore by. “Sit,” I tell her. “Better safe than sorry.”

She raises an eyebrow, playful, but complies. Slides onto the bench at the kitchen table, tucking her legs beneath her like she’s home. Misty trails in a moment later, hopping up beside her and curling into a silver puff.

I work in silence, brewing the mixture: ginger, mint, a touch of cinnamon. The scent is sharp and warm and grounding. Everything I wish I could be around her.

When I set the mug in front of her, our fingers brush. It’s the barest touch, but it jolts through me like an electric current.

“Drink all of it,” I murmur. “You’ll feel better.”

She lifts the mug, lips parting, and takes a slow sip. Her throat works as she swallows, eyes fluttering closed just for a second.

I can’t look away. I want to remember her like this: soft and flushed and safe in my kitchen.

She sets the mug down, blinking at me. “You always bake when you can’t sleep?”

“Pretty much. When I was younger, I used to sneak down here after my parents were asleep and make pancakes at 2 a.m.” I chuckle, remembering. “Made a mess, every time. Burned most of them too.”

Her smile widens. “Bet your brothers loved that.”

“Corwyn would complain about the smoke. Tyler would eat them all, anyway.” I lean back, bracing my arm along the back of the bench. “This kitchen has seen a lot of chaos.”

“It feels like a heart,” she says quietly. “Warm. Lived in. Safe.”

I glance at her, heart thudding. “That’s what I want it to be.”

The silence between us shifts, thickening with something unspoken. Her knees touch mine under the table. She doesn’t pull away.

I should be careful. I should say something light. But I don’t want to be careful.

“About the kiss,” I say, voice low.

Her lips part, and she stiffens slightly.

I reach across the table and gently brush her wrist with my fingers. “I want more than that.”