Page 80 of Knot on the Market

"I want Saturday mornings," I say, the words coming easier than I expected. "I want to make you pancakes and coffee and watch you read the paper in that chair by your window. I want to come home from work and find you there, want to know you're safe and happy and choosing to be with us because you want to be, not because you have to be."

I pause, testing the water temperature before adding more hot water to keep her comfortable.

"I want to take care of you when you're sick, and let you take care of me when I'm being stubborn about going to the doctor. I want to fight about what movie to watch and who's doing the dishes and whether Julian gets to rearrange all the kitchen cabinets according to some organizational system only he understands."

That gets a small laugh from her, which encourages me to keep going.

"I want to build something with you. All of us. Something real and messy and imperfect and ours." I finally meet her eyes, letting her see everything I'm feeling. "I want forever, Lila. But only if that's what you want too."

The silence that follows feels endless. She's looking at me with those wide green eyes, and I can't read her expression. Have I said too much? Been too honest about feelings that are probably way ahead of where she is?

Then her face crumples, and she starts crying.

Not gentle tears or the kind of emotional release that comes with relief. Full-on sobbing, the kind that shakes her whole body and makes my heart slam against my ribs in panic.

"Shit," I breathe, immediately moving closer to the tub. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? What did I say?"

But she's crying too hard to answer, and I have absolutely no clue what to do. This isn't like a broken door knob or a flooded kitchen—stuff I can fix with the right tools and enough elbow grease. This is feelings, big scary emotions that I've apparently screwed up, and I'm totally lost.

"Lila, please," I say, my voice probably betraying my panic. "Talk to me. What's wrong? What can I do?"

She tries to speak but only manages broken sounds between sobs. I reach for a towel, thinking maybe she's cold, maybe that's why, but she shakes her head, pushing the towel away.

"Julian!" I call, probably louder than necessary. "Julian, I need you!"

Footsteps pound up the stairs, both sets, Julian and Callum moving fast. They appear in the bathroom doorway within seconds, taking in the scene with immediate concern.

"What happened?" Julian asks, his analytical mind already trying to assess the situation.

"I don't know," I admit, feeling helpless. "We were talking, and I told her about wanting Saturday mornings and forever, and she just started crying. I don't know what I did wrong."

Julian's expression softens with understanding, and he moves to kneel beside the tub with the same careful attention he brings to everything else.

"Lila," he says gently, his voice cutting through her sobs with calm authority. "Can you look at me, love?"

She turns toward his voice, tears still streaming down her face, but her breathing starts to even out slightly.

"That's good," Julian murmurs. "Now breathe with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Can you do that?"

She nods, focusing on his voice as he guides her through the breathing exercise. Gradually, the sobs quiet to sniffles, though tears keep sliding down her cheeks.

"Better?" Julian asks, reaching for a washcloth to gently dry her face.

She nods again, then looks at me with red-rimmed eyes full of something that might be wonder.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's just—" Her voice breaks again, but this time I can see it's not distress. "No one's ever wanted Saturday mornings with me before."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. She's crying because I offered her something she's never had. The promise of ordinary, everyday love. The kind of commitment that's about more than just heat and attraction and the chemistry that brought us together.

"Oh, sweetheart," I breathe, finally understanding. "Of course I want Saturday mornings with you. I want every morning with you."

"Dustin always said I was too much work for domestic stuff," she continues, her voice getting stronger. "Too high-maintenance, too complicated. He said real relationships were about passion and excitement, not boring everyday things like pancakes and newspapers."

Callum makes a sound like a growl from the doorway, and I feel my own anger spike. What kind of person convinces someone that wanting to be cared for is asking too much?

"Dustin was an idiot," I say firmly. "And he's wrong about everything. You're not too much work, Lila. You're not too complicated. You're perfect exactly as you are, and anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve you."

"The boring everyday things are the best parts," Callum adds quietly. "That's where real love lives. In the small moments, the ordinary ones."

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