Page 71 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I put on leggings, laced up sneakers that had barely seen daylight since I bought them, and decided I was going to jog.

Run away from the thoughts.

Run toward clarity.

Run…whatever.

Except no one tells you jogging is a terrible idea when your lungs are fueled by caffeine and existential dread and you skipped breakfast.

Two blocks in, my breath was burning, my chest tight, and my legs felt like wet sandbags. I made it to the park and collapsed on a bench like I’d just completed a marathon rather than what was probably less than half a mile.

I cursed myself for not taking those damn pills with electrolytes Mia kept recommending. Or for not being one of those people whoactuallyran on weekends instead ofpretending they might someday.

And of course, now my stomach decided to join the party.

Growling. Loud. Insistent.

There was a vendor cart not far from the walking path, and I limped my way over to it, hair a mess, shirt clinging to me in all the wrong places from sweat and shame.

“One everything bagel, toasted,” I said, trying not to sound like someone on the verge of a mental collapse.

Five minutes later, I sat on the same bench, chewing the bagel in silence. It was dry. The cream cheese barely smeared. The sesame seeds kept falling into my lap.

But I didn’t care. I was alone. Sitting under a mostly-cloudy sky in a park I never visited, eating a mediocre bagel in an outfit meant for a life I didn’t actually live.

And still… somehow, that felt easier than going home. Home smelled like him.

I didn’t bother running back.

I walked, slower this time, chewing the last sad piece of my bagel like it might distract me from the storm inside my chest. My legs ached. My lungs still hadn’t forgiven me for that ill-fated jog. But at least the park gave me space to breathe.

The air smelled like early fall—leaves just beginning to turn, distant cinnamon from some coffee shop I couldn’t see, the vague crispness of a season shifting.

I tried to focus on that.

But instead, my mind betrayed me with flashes of him.

Sebastian laughing as he taught an intern how to flip an omelet without burning it. Sebastian talking to Charlene Whitmore like she was the queen of the damn realm. Sebastian reaching over to adjust the edge of my plating and brushing my wrist in the process. Sebastian—shirtless, sweaty, and smug—grinning down at me like he was the goddamn sun.

I cursed out loud.

A jog might not have helped, but maybe arson would.

By the time I got home, I’d made up my mind.

The sheets had to go. So I stripped the bed like it had betrayed me. Every wrinkle in the fabric felt like it carried his scent. Every pillowcase whisperedremember this?and I refused to answer.

I shoved the linen into the washer with enough scented beads to make it smell like a lavender bomb exploded inside a lemon grove. Then added more. Four times the recommended amount. Maybe five. I wasn’t counting.

Whatever it took to get him out of my bed. Out of my thoughts. Out of my life.

Phone in hand, I paced the kitchen before finally pressing call.

Mia answered on the third ring, her voice raspy with congestion. “If you’re calling to make me work while I’m half-dead, I swear—”

“I’m not,” I cut in quickly, then softened my tone. “I just… wanted to check on you.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Well. That’s sweet.” Another pause. “Wait. Are you okay?”

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