Page 55 of Knot Today (Hiddenverse #5)

Finn

Morning light creeps across the floor of my apartment, warm and soft where it touches the bare boards beneath my feet. I haven’t slept. Haven’t moved from my place at the window. I’ve barely blinked.

Because she’s still there.

Bathed in early light. Tangled in them.

Her nest—their nest now, I guess—is a chaotic sprawl of blankets and pillows gathered in the middle of her bed.

It was nothing last night when they carried her there—just bare sheets and tired limbs.

But I watched as they made it for her. Every touch, every pillow added, every goddamn layer was done with a reverence I’ve only ever felt alone.

I watched Carson drape a blanket over her legs. Watched Hunter kiss her temple. Graham, with his hand braced against the wall, like he couldn’t get close enough without coming apart. They moved around her, making her theirs.

And I watched it all.

From across the street. Unseen. Unwanted.

But I didn’t turn away.

Couldn’t.

She looked soft in their arms. Spent. Satisfied. All the tension she wore like armor had finally melted. As if she could finally breathe.

And fuck—my brain’s been looping on it all night.

Replaying every flicker of motion, every shift in her silhouette as her body pressed to theirs.

I could imagine the sound she must’ve made when Graham buried his face in her throat.

Could feel the way she probably whimpered when Carson’s mouth found her skin.

I pictured her purring.

I know I didn’t hear it. But I didn’t have to. I could see it in her body, in the way she arched, the way her fingers curled, the way her legs tangled around them as she accepted them as hers.

And maybe they are.

That thought digs claws into my chest.

I don’t move as the light shifts again, pouring a little more boldly through her windows. They’re still in there—those three. Her pack, whether she’s called them that yet or not. Graham’s arm is slung over her waist. Hunter’s curled on her other side. Carson is behind her, curled around her back.

I lick my lips and press my forehead to the windowpane. It’s cold. Not cold enough.

I wanted this for her. I still do.

But I never thought I’d have to watch it happen without me. I thought I had more time. Thought I could still become what she needed.

Instead, I’m outside the glass, stuck in the waiting. The watching. The ache.

She hasn’t looked this way yet. But when she does…

Maybe I’ll be gone.

Or maybe I’ll still be here.

Waiting.

Ready.

Because if she opens that window again—if she even thinks about running…I’ll be right here.

And this time, I won’t let her go back.

Not without a fight.