Page 48 of Knot Your Sugar Rush (Starling Grove #2)

Chapter forty-eight

Cam

A n hour’s sleep in my nest helped, and now I’m back outside, cooling down.

Night air clings cool and damp against my overheated skin.

I keep my elbows braced on the porch railing, letting the breeze pull some of the heat from my cheeks and neck.

It’s a relief, but only in degrees. My body still hums with that low, insistent awareness that has nothing to do with the temperature.

Behind me, the door creaks open, spilling warm light onto the boards. Theo’s voice rumbles out first, half an order, half a question. “We’ve got food heating. Something mild—you’ll eat, right?”

I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing there with a pot in one hand, his expression carefully neutral, like he’s giving me the chance to refuse.

“I could try,” I admit.

That’s all it takes. He disappears inside without a word, and the clink of dishes and low murmur of voices follows.

I can make out Jamie’s softer cadence, teasing in tone, and Dane’s low, steady replies.

They sound normal—like we’re in a kitchen on any other night, not camped in a half-forgotten safehouse with the ghost of a collapsed building still in our lungs.

I ease back inside after a moment, drawn toward the smells drifting from the kitchen.

The scent of something simmering—rich with broth, touched with garlic and thyme—wraps around me before I reach the doorway.

It’s almost too much in my current state, but the way it blends with the dry warmth of baking bread makes my stomach stir in spite of everything.

Jamie’s propped in his chair at the table, one leg stretched out under a blanket, his elbow braced as he stirs the pot on a trivet in front of him. Theo’s moving with brisk efficiency, slicing bread and setting out bowls, while Dane keeps the kettle whistling low on the old stove.

“You’re good at packing food,” I say, trying to sound casual but the strain winning over.

Theo gestures toward the single bed tucked against the far wall. “Sit. You look ready to fold in half.”

I obey, curling up with the quilt still wrapped around me, watching them in the small pool of lamplight. They move around each other in a quiet, practiced way, the occasional shoulder bump or muttered joke breaking the rhythm.

“Jamie tried to convince me we should just feed you cookies,” Theo says, not looking up from the bread.

“Don’t twist my words,” Jamie protests, his grin lazy but genuine. “I said cookies after dinner. You can’t heal on stew alone.”

“That’s… actually true,” I murmur, and Jamie shoots me a triumphant glance.

Dane brings over the first bowl, steam curling in the air. He sets it within reach, but not too close—like he’s measuring that careful distance again. “It’s hot,” he says, and the softness in his tone makes my chest ache in ways I don’t want to examine.

I dip the spoon in, smelling the broth before I taste it. The flavors hit all at once—savory, earthy, the kind of comfort that sinks straight down into your ribs.

They watch me in that unblinking alpha way, but it’s not the hovering kind. It’s more like they’re tracking a shift in the weather.

Halfway through the bowl, the knot of tension in my stomach loosens. It’s not just the food—it’s the steady hum of their presence, the way their voices weave together without a single sharp edge, the scent of bread and woodsmoke and faint cinnamon threading the air.

I let my eyes wander over them. Dane leaning on the counter, forearms bare; Theo setting the bread basket just within my reach before retreating to wipe the counter; Jamie adjusting his blanket but never losing that easy grin.

And I realize I’m not afraid right now. The ache of heat is still there, but it’s softened by something else—something like safety.

When I finish, Theo takes the empty bowl without a word. Jamie offers the last slice of bread from the basket, holding it out with a little tilt of his head. “For the record, cookies are next.”

It makes me laugh, which I think is exactly why he said it.

The bed feels warmer now, less like a corner I’ve been put in and more like a space that’s mine for the night.

I sink into the quilt, the scents of the safehouse and the three of them closing in around me like a second blanket.

My body’s still on edge, but the sharp fear has eased into something I can breathe through.

They don’t press, don’t push, don’t close the distance unless I ask. And I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I can trust again.