Melvin bent and pressed a quiet kiss against the damaged skin, and the simple contact settled into Mac more deeply than he expected,something long held in tension easing in a way he hadn’t known he needed.
“You still carry him,” Melvin murmured.
Mac shook his head once. “I carry all of them. Always have.”
Melvin studied him for a moment. “Not alone anymore.”
The silence that followed held no discomfort, only the weight of things that didn’t need explanation.
Mac lifted his hand and brushed his thumb beneath Melvin’s left eye, tracing the narrow line of the scar along his cheekbone. The skin there was smooth now, healed cleanly, but memory rose with sharp clarity, the bandage, the dried blood, the certainty that he might lose him before he ever understood what he meant.
“I thought about this,” Mac said quietly. “After the convoy. Wondered if I’d ever see you without that bandage again.”
Melvin exhaled slowly. “It’s not going away.”
“I know.”
Mac let his thumb rest there a moment longer. “It shouldn’t.”
Their foreheads touched without intention, the contact steadier than the kiss had been, something deeper than desire holding them there. The closeness felt less like discovery than return, a quiet rightness settling into place as if distance had only delayed the inevitable.
When they moved to the bed it came without urgency, drawn by the simple need to remain close. Not hunger or haste, only the quiet gravity that pulled them together after too much time apart. The mattress dipped beneath their weight and the small distance between them disappeared as naturally as breath.
Mac settled against him first, fitting where he had always belonged, the shape of Melvin’s body remembered without thought. The warmthof him spread through fabric and skin alike, steady and reassuring, and for a moment Mac did nothing but rest there with his eyes closed, breathing him in like something he had been denied too long. Up close he caught it again, that same underlying scent he had noticed the first week in country, clearer now without the desert layered over it. Something steady and unmistakable that settled the restless edge he had carried for weeks, grounding him in a way nothing else had. Honey and amber, unmistakable now, an intoxicating scent that stirred his wolf.
His hands began to move almost without thought, slow and unhurried, guided more by instinct than intention. He traced the line of Melvin’s shoulders first, feeling muscle shift beneath his palms, then followed the familiar strength of him down along his back. Each touch lingered, not searching but remembering, relearning what distance had never truly taken away.
Mac worked Melvin’s belt loose with precision, then pulled Melvin’s shirt up and over his head. The fabric fell away, and there it was, the lean, muscled chest, the trail of dark curls dipping below his waistline. The scent of honey and amber bloomed in the air, thick and intoxicating, and Mac’s mouth went dry. His hands settled on warm skin, and he felt the low, answering thrum of his own hunger, a deep pull that started in his gut and tightened everything lower.
He didn’t move. Just looked. The lamplight caught the definition of Melvin’s abdomen, the shadow between his pecs, the dusting of hair Mac’s fingers itched to touch. He’d seen him shirtless before, in tents and showers and under a punishing sun. This was different. This was permission.
Mac swallowed, voice rough. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Melvin said nothing. He just watched Mac’s face, his own expression quiet, open. Waiting.
Mac’s palms slid up, over the firm plane of Melvin’s stomach, feeling the muscle jump under his touch. His thumbs brushed the lower ridges of his ribs. The skin was so warm. The scent was everywhere now, clinging to his hands, flooding his senses. Honey and amber, the scent of home.
It sank into him, a physical weight in his blood, and the wolf in his chest stopped pacing. It went still, all its attention fixed on Melvin.
He bent his head, forehead coming to rest against Melvin’s sternum. He inhaled, deep and slow, and the world narrowed to this: heat, scent, the steady beat of a heart beneath his lips.
Melvin’s hands came up, one cupping the back of Mac’s neck, the other splaying wide between his shoulder blades. The hold was firm, an anchor.
Mac turned his head, pressed his mouth to skin. Not a kiss. A brand. He dragged his lips across, feeling the texture, the heat, tasting salt and that indefinable sweetness. His tongue followed, a slow, wet stripe up the center of Melvin’s chest.
A low sound vibrated through Melvin. Not a moan. A rumble, his panther purring. Approval.
Mac’s hands moved down, fingers hooking into the waistband of Melvin’s pants. He looked up, meeting Melvin’s gaze. Hazel eyes locked with dark, steady ones. The question was in the air, thick as the scent between them.
Melvin gave a single, slow nod.
Mac pushed the fabric down, hands following the line of Melvin’s hips, the curve of his ass. The pants slid to the floor.
Mac sat back on his heels, his breath catching. Melvin was fully hard, the heavy heat of his arousal unmistakable, curving up against his stomach. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip. The sight sent a jolt of pure, undiluted want straight to Mac’s core, his own cock aching, straining against his jeans.
He reached out, hand trembling from the sheer magnitude of the need, and wrapped his fingers around the base. The heat was startling. Heat and weight under his hand. He stroked up, once, a slow, testing glide. The pre-come slicked his path.
Melvin’s head fell back, a sharp exhale hissing through his teeth. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust up into Mac’s grip.
