Page 85 of Knot on the Market

Lila James, who has spent the past week and a half slowly relaxing into happiness, is carrying something she's not sure how to handle. And my chest aches because I recognize this. It's the same way I hold myself when I'm trying to figure out how to handle something important without hurting people I care about.

"More coffee?" she asks, holding up the pot with that same bright smile.

"Please," I say, watching as she refills my mug. Her hands are steady—too steady. The careful kind of control that reminds me of board meetings when my ex-pack was slowly deciding I wasn't worth keeping.

The coffee is perfect, of course. Exactly the right temperature, precisely the amount I prefer. She's been learning my preferences the way I learned hers, through attention and care and the kind of quiet observation that most people think is too much.

"Any exciting plans for the day?" I ask, testing the waters.

"Nothing special," she says, settling into the chair across from me. "Thought I might work on the front flower beds. Maybe plant some late summer blooms."

Her voice lacks the warmth it usually carries when she talks about house projects. She's been excited about every smallimprovement, but this is the first time home improvement has sounded like a chore.

"Julian," she says suddenly, her voice taking on that careful casualness that always comes before something important. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

She takes a sip of coffee, buying time. When she meets my eyes, I see something that makes my heart clench with protective instincts.

"Do you ever miss your old life? Before you came here?"

The question catches me off guard, not because it's unexpected, but because of the careful way she asks it. Not idle curiosity. This is someone trying to understand something important.

"No," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. "There was nothing there worth missing. My job was adequate, my apartment was functional, but I wasn't... myself. I was performing a version of myself that other people found acceptable."

She nods like this makes perfect sense, but I can see her processing my response with careful attention. "But weren't you tempted sometimes? To go back to what was familiar, even if it wasn't perfect?"

The words hit too close to home. Because yes, there were moments in those first months here when I'd catch myself reaching for my phone to call people who'd made it clear I was too much work.

"Are you?" I ask gently, because sometimes the best way to understand someone is to let them know you see they're wrestling with something important.

Her expression softens, and I catch a glimpse of vulnerability before she looks down at her coffee. "I got something in the mail yesterday. Something I thought I'd successfully avoided."

Relief floods through me, not because I want her to be struggling, but because I can finally help instead of wondering.

"What kind of something?"

She takes a shaky breath. "The Cinema Excellence Awards nominations were announced last month. My last film, the one that wrapped right before everything fell apart got nominated for Best Picture. And since I was one of the executive producers..." She trails off, but my brain fills in the blanks.

"You're invited to the ceremony." It's not a question.

"Not just invited. Expected." Her voice gets smaller. "It's in three weeks, and my publicist has been calling and emailing and apparently decided to escalate to physical mail when I didn't respond."

The admission hangs between us, and I watch her realize that I've been cataloging her careful consideration the way my brain always does—through numbers and patterns and detailed observation. But instead of looking annoyed, her expression softens into something that might be relief.

"You notice everything," she says quietly, and there's wonder in her voice instead of judgment.

"Only about things that matter to me," I admit, my throat tight. "And you matter, Lila. More than I know how to explain."

Her laugh is watery, surprised. "I love how your brain works, Julian. I love that you count things and notice patterns and remember details that other people miss. It makes me feel seen."

The words hit me like a physical blow—the good kind, the kind that reorganizes something fundamental in your chest. She loves how my brain works. The thing that made my ex-pack call me exhausting, she loves.

"Do you want to go?" I ask, even though I'm terrified of the answer.

"I don't know," she admits. "It's complicated."

I can see the war playing out across her face—the part of her that built a successful career fighting against the part that found peace in a small town with three alphas who think she's perfect exactly as she is.

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