What if that’s something he wants here?
Silver Peak could use that kind of magic, community, outreach, growth. And if The Marrow could be more than a restaurant? If it could give back somehow?
I can’t shake the feeling that it’s important.
That it could matter.
That he might need something to root him here, too.
So I throw on jeans and a soft sweater, braid my hair, and ignore the slight queasiness still curling in my stomach.Just a quick conversation. In and out. Then rest,I promise myself.
Right.
Only, that’s not how it goes.
Because by the time I pull into the lot behind The Marrow, I realize something’s very off.
There are too many cars.
Not just regular weekend busy, opening night level busy. I have to park near the dumpsters, wedged between a Subaru with Texas plates and what looks like someone’s converted van life home on wheels.
I frown, grabbing my bag and heading for the back entrance, stomach tight, not with nerves, but with the first flickers of foreboding.
The moment I push through the door, chaos greets me.
Noise. Heat. Motion.
Nova’s shouting over the pass. Wes is running back and forth between the grill and the fridge. Gracie has flour in her eyebrows, and there’s syrup on the prep counter that no one has time to clean.
“What the hell?” I blink. “What’s going on?”
Gracie doesn’t even look up as she grabs a baking sheet. “You’re supposed to be off!”
“Yeah, I know, but?—”
“We’re slammed!” Nova barks from the pass. “TikTok. Instagram. Something exploded. I blame Jace. Again.”
“What do you mean exploded?” I ask, stepping further in.
Dee gestures vaguely toward the front. “Tourists. Influencers. We’ve got a food blogger from Denver out there right now doing a live stream.”
Nova growls, “And apparently Knox is hot now.”
“Excuse me,now?” I blink.
“Like, internet hot,” Dee says, deadpan. “There are hashtags. People are ordering the ‘Knightly Biscuit’ just to take pictures of it.”
I peer through the pass window and feel my jaw drop.
There’s a line out the door. People in oversized scarves and sunglasses snapping photos of their food. A woman in a fleece jacket is holding up her baby next to the chalkboard menu like it’s a photo op. And at the center of it all?
Knox.
Hair damp with sweat, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he plates something with brisk, practiced ease. He’s in full command of the kitchen, but there’s a twitch at the corner ofhis mouth that tells me he knows exactly what’s happening and hates every second of the attention.
He’s moving with precision, confident, capable, every inch the chef. But I see the truth beneath the surface. The set of his jaw. The flicker of tension in his shoulders. The way he doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes for long.
He’s trying to tune it out. To pretend it’s just another day on the line.
