Page 225 of Knot Unwanted: Part One

“Ruthless,” Stone mutters admiringly. “I’ve taught you well.”

As the game progresses, something remarkable happens—we begin to relax. The conversation flows more naturally, punctuated by good-natured arguments over word legitimacy and teasing complaints about tile distribution. Hailey grows more confident with each turn, her initial hesitation transforming into thoughtful concentration as she plots her moves.

“So is this what you normally do?” she asks during a lull while Stone is deliberating over his tiles. “At home, I mean. Play games together?”

The question is innocent, but it pierces the bubble of momentary normalcy, reminding us all of what we’ve lost.

“Sometimes,” Finn answers when neither Stone nor I immediately respond. “We used to. Stone, Ren, and Jax work a lot.”

“But Friday nights were usually game nights,” Stone adds, placing his tiles carefully on the board. “Unless Ren had an exhibition at the gallery.”

Hailey’s eyes widen slightly. “He’s an artist?”

Finn shrugs. “Not for a long time.”

We settle back into the game after that, though a little tenser than before. It just reminds me that this whole pretense, this bubble we’re in, is not our reality.

As the afternoon wears on, we move from Scrabble to card games, Stone patiently teaching Hailey the rules of poker while Finn prepares a simple dinner. The domestic rhythm feels almost normal, even as the satellite phone sits silent on the counter, a reminder of Ren’s continued absence and the dangers waiting beyond this quiet cabin.

After dinner, while helping with dishes, I notice Finn pausing by the old record player tucked into a corner of the living room, his fingers tracing the edge of the cabinet with familiar longing.

“Does it work?” I ask, moving to stand beside him, careful to maintain the invisible boundary of personal space that’s developed between us again.

“I think so,” he whispers, opening the cabinet to reveal a collection of vinyl records. “Looks like Ren’s taste. Lots of jazz. Some classical.” He pulls out an album, examining the cover. “This is one of Ren’s favorites.”

The observation carries a weight of shared history—of late nights when Ren would pour whiskey and put on records while he painted masterpieces.

“Put it on,” I suggest. “It’s too quiet in here.”

Finn hesitates, then nods, carefully removing the vinyl from its sleeve and placing it on the turntable. The first notes fill the cabin, the cool, measured bass line creating an immediate atmosphere of sophisticated calm.

From the kitchen, I see Stone pause in his task of drying dishes, his head tilting slightly in recognition of the music. Beside him, Hailey sways unconsciously to the rhythm, her small movements making me smile.

“You like jazz?” Stone asks her.

She looks startled, as if caught doing something wrong. “I…I don’t know. But it’s…it makes me feel something.”

“That’s exactly right,” Finn tells her, adjusting the volume slightly. “That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

As the trumpet enters, cool and confident, Stone sets down his dish towel and moves to the center of the living room. In a gesture that surprises us all, he extends his hand to Hailey.

“May I have this dance?” he asks, his voice formal but his eyes kind. “Nothing complicated, I promise.”

Hailey looks to Finn, obviously seeking reassurance. When he nods, she hesitantly places her hand in Stone’s much larger one, allowing him to guide her into a simple, slow sway that accommodates the music’s languid tempo.

“I don’t know how to dance,” she admits, looking down at her feet.

“Neither does Stone,” Finn calls out, his lips twitching with repressed amusement. “That’s why he’s perfect for teaching beginners. Low expectations all around.”

Stone’s indignant “Hey!” draws a small laugh from Hailey, easing some of the tension from her shoulders as she settles into the impromptu lesson. Her movements are stiff at first, too concerned with getting it “right,” but as Stone continues his gentle guidance, she gradually relaxes.

“That’s it,” he encourages when she stops watching her feet and starts feeling the rhythm. “Jazz isn’t about precision. It’s about how it moves you.”

From my position by the record player, I watch this unexpected scene unfold—our most physically imposing alpha patiently teaching our little omega to dance, his movements careful and respectful, her trust in him growing with each measure of music. It’s a side of Stone that outsiders rarely see, this gentleness that exists alongside his strength.

Finn watches them too, his expression complex—pride in Hailey’sgrowing confidence mingled with something wistful as he observes her connection with Stone. When the song transitions to another with a more pronounced swing, I find myself moving toward him.

“Your turn,” I say, offering my hand. “Show her how it’s really done.”

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