He hums in acknowledgment, and I move closer, setting my bag down on the dining table and watching the way he moves around the kitchen.
“What are you making?” I ask.
“Pasta,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I think.”
I smile and step closer, leaning my hip against the counter. He finally glances at me; his stunning blue eyes flicking over my face, my posture, and the faint tiredness I know he can feel through the bond, even if he won’t comment on it.
“How’s Theo?” he asks.
“Disappointed,” I say. “He’s definitely not playing in the next game. Might even be out for two. But… he understands. I think.”
His jaw tightens briefly, the protective edge of him sharpening before smoothing back out.
“Yeah. He’s good at that,” he comments. “Understanding, I mean.”
He turns the heat on the stove down a notch.
“And Connor?” he asks, tone carefully neutral.
I tilt my head, watching him.
“He’s fine. Just his usual, loud self, from what I saw of him earlier. He’s coming over later, apparently.”
“Football’s on,” he nods. “Figured it’d be easier watching it here than as a whole group, and dealing with Gordo’s commentary.”
“That’s a low bar,” I laugh softly, and Beau nods in agreement. “Theo’s coming, too,” I add.
That earns me a look.
“Yeah,” Beau says after a long beat. “He texted.”
He turns his attention back to the stove. He reaches for a spoon, tastes the sauce, frowns at it, and moves to add salt. I watch the way his shoulders loosen just a fraction: when I don’t comment. When I don’t hover.
When I simply exist beside him.
This is what surprises me the most about Beau. Not the dominance, or the intensity. Not even the way he comes undone when we’re alone and the walls are closed in tight.
It’sthis.
The quiet. The restraint. The way he seems to hold so much inside unless he’s certain it’s safe to let it out.
“You can shower if you want,” he says. “I’ll finish this.”
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’ll help.”
He nods, then shifts slightly to make room for me, handing me a knife and a cutting board without asking. The ease of it sends a warm flicker through my chest.
We’re bonded, but learning.
I’ve been claimed, but not consumed.
*
The living room feels smaller with all of us in it.
The low hum of the TV fills the background, some college football game none of them are particularly invested in, serving mostly as an excuse to sit, drink beer, and talk over one another.
Connor’s sprawled on the floor with his back against the couch, one knee bent, bottle balanced lazily in his hand. Theo’s claimed the armchair, his injured shoulder propped carefully with acushion, ice pack abandoned somewhere near his foot, while Beau’s on the couch beside me, his thigh pressed against mine.
