Page 54 of Knot on the Market

Her phone starts ringing from inside the house, sharp and insistent. She glances toward the sound with mild irritation.

"Sorry, I should get that," she says, already moving toward the front door. "Thank you again, all of you. Really."

She waves as she disappears inside to answer the call, leaving the three of us standing in her front yard.

Dean watches her go, then turns that calculating look on Callum and me. There's something in his expression that makes me wonder what exactly he's thinking.

"Hey," Dean says casually as Callum reaches for his truck door, "leave the flannel."

Callum pauses, his hand on the door handle, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"

Dean's grin is knowing and warm, the expression of someone who understands dynamics that others might miss. "You like her? Trust me. Leave the shirt."

The suggestion hangs in the air for a moment, loaded with implications that make my chest tight with something that might be jealousy or anticipation or both. Callum's gaze flicks toward the house where we can hear Lila's muffled voice on the phone, then back to Dean with growing understanding.

"You sure?" Callum asks quietly.

"Positive," Dean says with the confidence of someone who's never been wrong about these things. "She'll appreciate it."

I watch, fascinated despite myself, as Callum processes this advice. The careful consideration that crosses his face, the moment when decision crystallizes into action. He's alreadyholding his flannel—he'd taken it off earlier while working in the heat, leaving him in just a white t-shirt that clings to his broad chest.

The flannel carries his scent—cedar and sawdust and that grounding, masculine presence that seems to emanate from everything he touches. When he drapes it carefully over the porch railing, the fabric immediately begins scenting the space around it, claiming territory in the subtle way that alpha garments do when left in omega spaces.

"There," Callum says simply, but there's satisfaction in his voice. Like he's finally done something right in a situation where he's been improvising.

Dean claps him on the shoulder with obvious approval. "Good man."

Callum nods once, climbs into his truck, and drives away with that same quiet competence he brings to everything else. But the flannel remains, a gentle presence that will remind Lila of steady hands and careful work and someone who shows up when things need fixing.

I'm processing the implications of what just happened when Dean turns that knowing look on me.

"You too, man," he says with gentle authority.

"Me?" I ask, though I'm already beginning to understand where this is leading.

"Yeah." Dean's voice drops to something more serious. "I've known you for years, Julian. Never seen you build or fix anything, but here you are fixing a mailbox you clearly didn't know how to fix." His grin returns, warmer now. "She'll figure it out eventually. Leave something with your scent on it. She'll like it."

The suggestion hits me hard. Not because it's unwelcome, but because it's exactly what I want to do and had convinced myself I shouldn't.

What if she doesn't want it? What if it's too much again?

But Dean's looking at me like he thinks I'm worth taking a chance on. Like maybe my particular brand of attention isn't a burden.

If this is what she wants... what comforts her... I'll give it.

I hesitate, then pull off my button-down shirt. The undershirt beneath is perfectly adequate, and the afternoon heat makes the decision practical as much as meaningful. The shirt carries my scent concentrated in the fabric from hours of wear.

I fold the button-down with the same precision I bring to everything else, and place it on the porch table beside Callum's flannel. The sight of our shirts together does something to my chest. We're both marking this space now. Both hoping she'll want these reminders of us around.

Maybe this time it won't be too much. Maybe this time someone will want what I have to give.

"Good man," Dean says again, reaching over to pat my shoulder.

I catch movement at the front window. Lila's been watching this entire exchange. When our eyes meet through the glass, something passes between us that I can't quite name. Understanding, maybe. Like she knows exactly what we're doing and she's okay with it.

She's okay with it.

That knowledge sends heat through me that I definitely can't acknowledge in her front yard.

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