Then, what Dale had said finally registered and Oren blinked.“You and Ty ...kissed?”
“Yeah,” Dale said with a grin.“Different, but still fucking awesome.See you tonight.1800 hours.”
And then he left Oren there, breathless, confused, and maybe a little hopeful, thinking about the kisses he’d shared with both men—and wondering what the hell his life was turning into.
****
Oren arrived first.
He wore fitted jeans and a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.His red hair was combed but still slightly unruly, and the soft scruff along his jaw made Dale’s mouth water.There was something effortless about him—something real.
Dale didn’t hesitate.The moment he opened the door and saw Oren standing there with a six-pack of local craft beer in hand and uncertainty in his green eyes, he stepped in and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
It was hot, claiming, and purposeful.
Oren made a surprised noise in the back of his throat but kissed him back, warm and eager.When they finally pulled apart, Dale chuckled and took the beers from his hand.
“Welcome to the Ridge House,” he said, heading for the kitchen.“Come in, make yourself at home.”
The suite was warm and smelled like garlic and tomatoes.Dale had music playing low in the background—an old Italian jazz playlist.He wore a simple t-shirt and joggers, barefoot as he moved around the kitchen with practiced ease.
“Smells amazing,” Oren said as he took a seat at the breakfast bar.
Dale grinned.“Family recipe.My great-grandfather came over from Sicily.When he arrived, they misspelled his name on the immigration papers—supposed to be Ricco, ended up Ricoh.But hey, they couldn’t take the sauce out of our blood.”
He poured Oren a drink—red wine, rich and bold—and handed it to him with a wink.
“Didn’t know you cooked,” Oren said, taking a sip.
“I like it.Keeps me sane.Plus, feeding people is its own kind of love language.”
They chatted for a bit about neutral things—work on the therapy wing, the latest Pathfinder trainees, the weather.Dale kept the conversation easy, trying to soften the tight lines around Oren’s eyes.
But even as they talked, Dale kept glancing toward the door.
Oren noticed.“Is Ty coming?”
Dale paused, nodding slowly.“Yeah.I talked to him.He said he’d be here.”
Oren looked down at his glass.“I wanted to talk to him at the barracks, but he never came back.”
“He’s hurt,” Dale admitted.“Pissed.But he said he’d come.”
Internally, Dale hoped like hell he would.He’d left the door ajar on purpose—hoping Ty would walk in, would hear something good from their man.Hoping the three of them could start figuring this out.
Dale stood at the counter, grating fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano onto a small wooden board.The scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes filled the Ridge House suite, clinging to the air like a warm hug.He liked cooking—it grounded him.He liked feeding people, especially the ones he cared about.Especially tonight.
He was about to call Oren over to taste the sauce when he noticed a shadow move just beyond the open door.Ty.Hovering.Unsure.
Before Dale could say anything, Oren’s voice broke through.Low.Tight.But loud enough that Dale knew Ty would hear him.
“It wasn’t just what I said to Ty,” he murmured.“It’s what was already in my head.This morning—something hit me.A memory.My dad...”
Dale stopped grating the cheese and stilled, giving him his full attention.Waiting.
Oren didn’t look up, continued to stare at the wine glass in his hand as his fingers stroked the stem.“My father was a preacher.One of those fire-and-brimstone types.That bastard would actually physically beat me with his Bible.Told me it was to drive out the sin.Sundays, he’d preach about love and brotherhood, and by Sunday night, I’d have welts on my back.I was a kid.I thought that was normal.”
