“Love you too, Dad,” I grin.
Beau’s quiet as he paces us, his shoulder tight, but his jaw tighter. The crack is there: in his scent, in the tension under his skin, and in the way he looked down the hallway like there was someone pulling at him.
And as Theo sighs heavily and skates away, I have to wonder whether that citrus-scented omega hasanyidea that she’s started something.
Chapter Twelve
Emery
After two whole weeks, the Icebox feels like a second home, which is… unsettling. It shouldn’t feel familiar this fast. Not the way my feet know which floorboard creaks outside the PT room, or how I no longer need the map taped behind the desk to remember which storage cupboard holds the resistance bands versus the ice packs.
Fourteen consecutive days of bruised ribs, taped ankles, knotted quads, and one extremely stubborn captain with a shoulder that hates him will do that, I suppose.
My time so far in Iron Lake has been…something. Busy. Chaotic. Strangely grounding.
Also: full of Beau Wolfe.
Not that we talk much at home. We’ve fallen into a weird—truce? Pattern? Coexistence treaty?
He wakes earlier than I do no matter what time he goes to sleep and pads around the house like a giant predator trying not to spook the prey. We exchange neutral nods in the morning(sometimes strained greetings), and though he doesn’t exactlybroodat me anymore—not like that first day, anyway—the air between us still goes taut whenever we accidentally make eye contact in the kitchen.
The conversation with the rental agency hadn’t been helpful. Apparently, someone forgot to update the database.
That was it: that was the explanation.
I’d asked if there were any alternatives, and they’d said that therewasone other place.
“It’s currently occupied, though, and the tenant has no plans to move. And also the roof leaks. And also it’s directly above the taxidermy shop, so—probably not ideal.”
Apparently, I was never meant to live alone, and I figure it’s a classic case of better the devil you know. You know: the devil whose scent threads through the house like storm-steady alpha tension I’m refusing to think about.
Living with Beau isn’t bad, necessarily. He doesn’t bother me, he’s justthere. A quiet storm system moving around the kitchen. A heavy footstep on the stairs, and a deep voice murmuring something unintelligible when he’s half-asleep and passing by the bathroom.
So, yeah. Beau is the constant. And not just at home, either, buthere—every day, without fail.
We've been working closely together, just as Coach wanted. It's less awkward at work than it is at home, since there's a purpose to our interactions.
Light skates that turn into stretching sessions. Stretching sessions that turn into time in the gym. Controlled strengthwork, careful mobility drills, endless reminders from me to slow down, and the way he actually listens when I correct him.
It’s…intimate,whether either of us acknowledges it or not.
(Which, for the record, we absolutely do not.)
There’s something about working on someone’s body every day that strips pretense away. I know the exact point where his shoulder tightens before he does. I know when he’s pushing through pain and when he’s pretending he isn’t. I know the sound he makes when a stretch hits just right—a low, involuntary noise that he clearly wishes he could swallow back down.
Today, it’s massage.
It’s not my favorite part of the job. Necessary, yes—but there’s something about prolonged touch that always feels heavier and more personal,especiallywhen the person under my hands is someone I live and eat with.
Beau lies face down on the table, his shirt discarded and his bare skin warm beneath my palms. I work oil into the muscle methodically, focusing on the scar tissue along his shoulder blade, the tight bands that refuse to let go.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say, professional to the core.
He exhales, long and slow, and the sound does something unfortunate to my concentration.
“Feels… good,” he murmurs, voice roughened in a way it absolutely does not need to be.
I adjust my pressure, thumbs digging deeper, and he groans this time. My pulse stutters, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
