Page 94 of Knot on the Market

"How's your brain now?" I ask, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

"Remarkably quiet," he admits, wonder in his voice. "I'm not thinking about protocols or positioning or statistical probabilities of disaster."

"What are you thinking about?"

He's quiet for a moment, his fingers stroking through my hair with gentle reverence. "How incredible you are," he says finally. "How you saw what I needed and gave it to me without making me ask."

"That's what people do when they care about each other."

"Is that what this is?" he asks, and there's something vulnerable in the question. "Caring about each other?"

The words hang between us, weighted with implications I'm not sure any of us is ready to examine. What are we to each other? The physical connection is undeniable, the emotional pull getting stronger every day, but we haven't defined what that means beyond saying we're a pack. And we have been a pack,in name, in domestic routine, in everything except the ways that actually matter.

"Yes," I say simply, because it's true even if it feels insufficient for what's building between us. "I care about you, Julian. All of you. More than I expected to when I came here."

His arms tighten around me, and I feel some fundamental tension leave his body. "I care about you too," he says quietly. "More than I know how to quantify. More than I've let myself show."

There's an admission in that. That the careful distance hasn't been about not wanting, but about wanting too much, too fast. About all of us trying to be responsible when what we really want is to dive headfirst into whatever this is becoming.

"You don't have to quantify everything," I tell him, tracing patterns on his chest through his shirt. "Some things just are."

"That's terrifying for someone who lives by data and analysis."

"But also freeing, right? Not everything has to be solved or understood. Sometimes you can just... experience it."

He considers this, his analytical mind clearly struggling with the concept. "I want to," he says finally. "I want to learn how to just be with you without trying to predict every possible outcome."

"We have time," I assure him, settling more comfortably in his lap. "No rush, no pressure. We'll figure it out as we go."

"All of us?" he asks. "Because this thing between the four of us, it's..."

"Complicated," I finish. "But maybe complicated isn't bad. Maybe it's just... thorough."

The word choice makes him laugh, the sound surprised and genuine. "Leave it to you to find a way to make my neuroses sound appealing."

"They're not neuroses. They're part of what makes you you." I press another kiss to his jaw, breathing in his scent of black tea and bergamot that's now mixed with satisfaction and something deeper. "And I happen to like who you are."

"Even when I'm researching award show protocols like I'm planning a military operation?"

"Especially then. Though next time you start spiraling, maybe just ask for help instead of disappearing into spreadsheets for three hours."

"What kind of help?" he asks, his hands stroking down my back.

The innocent question combined with his touch sends heat racing through me again. I shift in his lap, noting how his breathing changes when my movement puts pressure exactly where he's still sensitive.

"Any kind I can give," I say, my voice dropping back into that intimate register that makes his pupils dilate.

"Lila," he warns, but there's want in his voice rather than protest.

"Hmm?" I rock slightly in his lap, watching his careful control start to fray again.

"You're going to kill me," he groans, his grip on my hips tightening.

"What a way to go, though."

His laugh is breathless, strained. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around."

"Who says you're not taking care of me?" I lean closer, my lips brushing his ear. "Do you have any idea how good it makes me feel to watch you fall apart? To know I can do that to you?"

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