Page 6 of Knotting With A Stranger

I can’t help the laugh that escapes.If that’s your way of asking for photos...

Still grinning, I drop into my chair and stick my foot out, twisting to get the right angle. The canvas shoes almost gleam under the lights as I snap the picture against the industrial floor.Here’s a toe pic. Try to contain your excitement.

Oh, my. How scandalous. At least buy me dinner first.

I would if I could. Unfortunately, I’m a bit... tied up at the moment.

The truth hovers dangerously close to the surface. But something about her makes me want to be honest—or as honest as I can be.

Tied up with Bertha the sourdough?she asks.

Among other things. Life’s complicated right now.

Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.

Yeah. I get that.

Something in her response tone shifts, and I ask.Bad day?

Not bad, exactly. Just... one of those days where everything reminds you of what you’ve lost, you know?

The vulnerability in her words hits something deep in my chest.

Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.

Sorry, didn’t mean to get heavy. Usually, I save the tragic backstory for at least the second week of accidental texting.

Lucky me, I’m ahead of schedule. Want to talk about it?

Another pause.It’s just... my mom. She loved Christmas. The bakery was always her favorite place at this time of year. Some days, it feels like yesterday; others, it feels like a lifetime ago.

My chest squeezes at my past, my shitty situation. Through the window, snow continues to fall, each flake another reminder of everything I’ve lost. The white blanket covers everything, just like the silence that’s smothered my old life, buried who I used to be. I think of my own losses—freedom, reputation, time. Some days, the weight of it all feels like drowning in that endless white, but hers feels heavier somehow.

How long?

Fifteen years. I was twelve. My sister was fourteen. Dad did his best, but... well. Complicated.

I fight back the urge to promise things I can’t deliver. To fix, to heal, to wrap her in safety, and to make the world softagain. Fuck, it’s been one week of messages, and I’m already in too deep. But what else do I have in here except these moments, these words that make me feel real again? Getting obsessed is dangerous, and I know better. But empty Alpha promises won’t help either of us. Instead, I type,Thank you for telling me.

Thanks for listening. Most people get weird about grief. Like it has an expiration date or something.

Grief is grief.

Anyway, you know what’s weird? Talking to you is easier than talking to most people I actually know.

Maybe because there’s no pressure. No expectations.

Maybe. Or maybe you’re just good at listening.

If she only knew how much these conversations mean to me, too. These moments of normalcy, of connection, in a place designed to limit both.

Then the past hits without warning, sharp as a knife…

Rain drumming against the windshield, streetlights smearing orange through the darkness. The leather of my jacket creaking as I grip the steering wheel. I should’ve known better. Rick had always walked the line between legal and not, had always pulled this shit since I’ve known him. But friends are friends and you trust them, right? So, why the fuck does picking him up in the middle of the night from the drug store leave me questioning my decision?

The passenger door suddenly rips open. Rick dives in, face flushed with adrenaline, rain dripping from his hair. The metallic click of something heavy hitting the floor makes my chest tight.

“Drive!” His voice cracks. “Fucking drive, James!”

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