Ava is leaning against the hallway wall with her arms crossed. She's a beta. She can't smell the pheromones, the slick, or the fact that her bathroom now reeks of fated mates who were thirty seconds away from fucking on her counter.
"Seventeen minutes for a band-aid," she says, rolling her eyes. "Were you performing surgery in there?"
"He's a bleeder," Callum says. His voice sounds remarkably normal for a guy who was just growling against my throat.
"I'm a bleeder," I confirm, holding up my band-aided finger.
Ava herds us toward the table. I sit down. My jeans cling to my inner thighs, damp and cooling. Every time I shift in the chair, the denim drags against my wet boxers, a glaring reminder that I'm ruined underneath these clothes. I'm still hard. I'm sitting across from the man who just had his cock pressed against mine, and I'm supposed to eat chicken and make conversation with his sister.
"Milo, how's the psych paper going?" Ava asks, passing me the salad.
"Great," I lie. I haven't looked at it in three days because I've been sexting a stranger on KnotMe who turned out to be—well. "Almost done."
Our knees touch under the table. We both go still. It's just knees through jeans, but it feels like a live wire. The muscle in Callum's jaw jumps.
He picks up the serving spoon and drops more food onto my plate without asking. I stare at it. He did it automatically, the exact same reflex as my anonymous match checking if I'd eaten. My throat goes tight.
Ava talks about her coworker's new puppy. I chew and nod in the right places, but my brain is completely offline. I can stilltaste him. Callum's eyes keep drifting to my mouth. To my neck. To my hands. Every time our eyes meet, I have to look away first, or I'm going to climb across this table.
I help clear the plates because I'm Milo, and I help clear the plates even when my underwear is destroyed and my fated mate is standing three feet away. I stand, feeling the cooled slick pull where the denim has dried against my thighs. I carry a stack of dishes to the kitchen counter.
Callum is right there.
As I pass him, his fingers catch my hip—quick, hidden from Ava's angle—pressing into the curve below my waist. He leans close, his breath hitting my ear.
"I'm not done with you," he murmurs, his voice so low it's barely a sound.
My knees buckle for the second time tonight. I nod without looking at him. If I look at him, I'll kiss him, and Ava is four feet away drying a pan.
His hand drops. He steps back. I put a plate in the sink and stare at the water swirling down the drain, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure Ava can hear it.
Callum
The kitchen counter is cold under my palms. I'm braced against it, staring at my monstera like it's going to tell me what the fuck just happened. It has nothing for me. Hank is a great plant, but a terrible therapist.
My mouth still tastes like Milo. My hands smell like him—his skin, his slick, the warm-sugar scent that coated my fingers when I pressed my palm to his stomach in my sister's bathroom twenty minutes ago. I keep lifting my hand to my face and breathing it in like a goddamn animal. I can't stop. My cock is still half-hard in my jeans, and the kettle I put on is screaming because I forgot about it the second I hit the switch. I shut it off and wipe the counter, because apparently that's what I do when my brain goes blank. I wipe counters. I consider changing my shirt for about three seconds before realizing it smells like him. I'm not taking it off. That's either romantic or pathological, and I'm in no position to judge right now.
My phone buzzes against the granite. I nearly knock it onto the floor grabbing for it.
Milo:Can we talk?
Talk. Right. Talking is definitely what my body wants to do right now. It's absolutely the plan, and not bending him over the nearest flat surface and finishing what we started before my sister knocked on the door.
I type back before I can overthink it.
Callum:I can pick you up.
Milo:already on my way
Milo:is that okay?
My heart does a heavy, stupid thump in my chest. He's already on his way. Milo, who overthinks what kind of cookies to bring to a dinner party, who spends every social interaction making sure everyone else is comfortable before he even considers what he wants. He texted me and just started walking. No deliberating, no polling his friends. He's coming here.
I pace a circuit through the apartment. I check the door twice. I pick up a glass and put it down again, my hands needing a job because the rest of me is vibrating on a frequency I can't shut off. My place is clean, but I'm looking at it with new eyes—wondering if it smells weird, if the bed is made. The bed. Jesus. I made it this morning out of habit, and now I'm standing in the doorway staring at it, thinking about Milo's curls on my pillow. I have to physically turn around and walk back to the kitchen before I lose my damn mind.
The intercom buzzes. My entire body jolts.
I hit the button. "Come up." My voice sounds remarkably normal for a guy who just spent fifteen minutes smelling his own fingers.
