A place to land. A person to come home to. A pack that claims me even when I don't know how to claim myself.
I press my lips to Jason's hair and let myself have it.
Chapter 17
Jason
We take our time getting back to Ash's place.
The night is cool and clear, stars scattered across a sky you can actually see out here, away from the city lights. I'm on the back of Ash's bike again, arms wrapped around his waist, cheek pressed against his back. The vibration of the engine hums through both of us, and I let myself just exist in this moment—full of good food, settled from pack, content in a way I haven't felt in years.
There's no rush tonight. No desperate need clawing at us, no urgency making us tear at each other's clothes. Just the quiet buzz of belonging, and the certainty that we have all night.
Ash pulls into his driveway and kills the engine. The silence that follows feels sacred somehow, like we're the only two people in the world.
He unlocks the door and I follow him inside, kicking off my shoes while he does the same. The house doesn't feel empty anymore. There's a blanket on the couch that I left here three days ago, soft gray fleece that smells like both of us now. Coffee mugs in the sink from this morning, mine with the chip on the handle. My jacket on the hook by the door, hanging next to his.
It's starting to feel like ours.
"Hey," Ash says, and when I turn, he's looking at me with soft eyes. Open and unguarded in a way he rarely lets himself be. "Thank you. For tonight. For including me."
"You cubed cheese. That's not exactly a hardship."
"You know what I mean." He crosses the distance between us, pulls me closer by the belt loops until our hips are flush. "The pack stuff. Making me part of it. Not just letting me watch but actually making me part of it."
"You're already part of it." I lean up and kiss him, slow and sweet, tasting the lingering hint of truffle mac and cheese on his tongue. "You have been for a while. You just didn't see it yet."
We drift toward the bedroom without really deciding to, shedding clothes along the way. His shirt in the hallway—I toss it toward the bathroom door but miss. My jeans by the bedroom doorframe, stepped out of mid-stride. By the time we reach the bed, we're down to underwear, and Ash is looking at me like I'm something he can't quite believe he gets to have.
"Can I try something?" I ask.
"Anything." No hesitation. Complete trust.
"I want to take care of you tonight. The way you took care of me." I press my hand to his stomach, feel his breathing go unsteady. "Let me give back."
His breath catches. "Jason—"
"Let me." I press him back onto the bed, climbing over him, and he goes without resistance. Letting me guide him, letting me set the pace. "Please."
This man who controls everything, who's always the protector, who spent five years in combat zones where letting your guard down meant dying—he's letting me have this. Letting me take care of him. Trusting me with the soft underbelly he doesn't show anyone.
I kiss down his body slowly, mapping every inch of him. His jaw, rough with stubble. His throat, where I can feel his pulse jumping. The scar on his collarbone—shrapnel, he told me once, from a blast that killed two of his squad members and left him with ringing in his ears for a month.
He's got so many scars. A puckered circle on his shoulder that might be a bullet graze. A thin white line across his ribs. Something jagged on his hip that looks like it must have bled a lot. Stories written on his skin, a history of violence and survival that I want to learn, someday, when he's ready to tell them.
For now, I just kiss each one I find. Pressing my lips to the evidence of everything he's been through, everything he's survived to end up here with me.
"Jason." His voice is rough, wrecked. "You don't have to—"
"I want to." I kiss the scar on his hip, feel him shiver. "Every part of you. Even the parts that hurt."
I detour to his nipples, dragging my tongue across one flat disc until it hardens, then biting down gently. He hisses, his hand flying to my hair.
"Sensitive?" I ask against his skin.
"You know I am."
I do know. I file away his reactions like he files away mine—what makes him gasp, what makes him arch, what makes him forget to be in control. I bite down harder on the other nipple and he groans, his hips lifting off the bed.
