He looked up at me slowly, those wide eyes catching the streetlight in a way that made my chest ache. For a second, he didn’t answer.
Then, barely above a whisper, he said, “Beau… I need to tell you something. Something important.”
My lungs emptied in one long breath. Relief crashed over me, quiet and fierce.
“I figured you do,” I said, voice gentler than I felt. “I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”
But inside, my bear was still pacing.
Whoever was watching Sean… whoever had him looking over his shoulder like prey, I was going to find them and make them hurt.
We walked in silence most of the way to Sean’s place.
I didn’t push. I wanted to. Heck, every fiber of my being wanted to sit him down, look him in the eyes, and ask, no demand, to know who the hell was after him.
But I couldn’t do that. I knew what fear looked like. I’d lived in its shadow long enough to recognize the shape it left in someone’s spine when they were carrying too much alone.
So I stayed quiet. Kept to his pace. Our hands brushed a few times, and I caught him glancing at me, like he wasn’t sure if he should speak, or just hold on.
When we reached his apartment, he turned to me, keys halfway out of his pocket. “Do you… want to come in? I was going to make something for dinner.”
I nodded, grateful he wanted me close, even now. “Sure. If you don’t mind.”
He didn’t answer, just unlocked the door and led us inside.
The place was warm, and finally looked lived-in. A little cluttered, like always, with flour on the counter and a baking book cracked open beside the sink.
“I was thinking chicken pot pie,” he said, already moving to wash his hands.
“Need a sous chef?” I asked, rolling up my sleeves.
He blinked, then gave me a small smile. “Only if you promise not to burn anything.”
We worked in sync, like we’d done this before. Like we’d always done this. I chopped onions while he prepped the crust.
He gave me quiet instructions, but halfway through, I didn’t need them.
I knew what he needed before he asked: the whisk, the thyme, a pinch of salt when he tasted the sauce and wrinkled his nose.
He bumped my hip with his once, teasing, “And here I was, thinking you can only make sweet desserts.”
“Don’t be so shocked,” I grinned. “I have very talented hands, you know. And excellent instincts.”
His laugh, soft, surprised, real, was worth every ounce of effort. It hit me like a warm wave: I wanted this. Not just tonight. Not just for now.
I wanted this always. I wanted to wake up to his laugh.
To that sleepy face he made when he was still half-dreaming. I wanted to make coffee while he shuffled around the kitchen in socks and a too-big sweater. I wanted him.
By the time we slid the pies into the oven, the apartment smelled like comfort. The kind of scent that clung to your clothes, your hair, your memories.
We set the table and sat down. He poured us each a glass of water, fussed with the edge of his napkin.
But when I looked up, he wasn’t eating.
Neither was I.
His pie sat untouched. So did mine. There was something tight in his shoulders again, like the air had shifted and the weight had returned.
