A rhythm. A recipe. A task that asked for precision and gave something sweet in return.
I pulled out the ingredients for cinnamon rolls. The old-fashioned kind, like the ones Beau first taught me to make.
Flour. Yeast. Milk. Sugar. Butter. Eggs.
Each motion helped pull me back to the present. Each whisk, each measured scoop. I mixed the dough, letting the warmth of the milk soothe the chill still coiled around my bones.
Kneading helped.
There was something satisfying in the repetition of it. My hands sank into the dough, pushing and folding, grounding myself in the rhythm.
The nightmare still clung to me, sticky and insidious, but this... this helped me forget, at least momentarily.
I set the dough aside to rise and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying not to fall apart. Was it stupid to be this shaken over a dream?
It wasn’t just a dream. It was a warning. A possibility.
Orin was real, and dangerous.
I’d seen what he did.And if he had tracked me here, if he was already in town, then how long until the nightmare became truth? I closed my eyes, breathing slow.
I didn’t want Beau caught in this, but I also didn’t want to be without him. That thought alone twisted something deep inside me.
At first, I told myself Sugarpaw Springs would be temporary. Just a hiding place. A quiet, out-of-the-way town where I could disappear long enough to feel normal again.
Somewhere I could catch my breath, regroup, maybe find some part-time work and lie low until Orin lost interest or until I figured out where to run next.
But then…
The town got under my skin in the softest, sneakiest ways.
The quiet streets lined with flower boxes. The scent of pine in the morning. The locals who remembered your name and asked how your day was like they meant it.
The way Bear and Bun smelled like safety and cinnamon. The way the other shifters laughed loudly and didn’t judge me when I flinched at sudden sounds.
And Beau was never what I expected. Not when we met. Not even now.
He was quiet and gruff and looked like he could rip a man in half with one hand, and yet he baked cookies for grieving old ladies.
Beau stayed up late trying to perfect lemon bars because he wanted them “just right,” and always made sure I had a clean apron and a bottle of water when I started working.
He saw me. Really saw me.
I’d started waking up wanting to see him. Wanting to open the bakery. Wanting to greet the locals and sneak a bear claw when Rafael wasn’t looking.
Somewhere between the dough and the long hours and the stolen smiles across flour-dusted counters, I’d stopped surviving and started… living again.
So yeah. I didn’t want to leave. Not the bakery. Not the town. And definitely not Beau.
But was I being selfish?
Was it selfish to want a life here, knowing that Orin was still out there? That my presence might put everyone I’d come to care about in danger?
I wrapped my arms around myself, the question sinking deep. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t strong. I was just a guy who ran when things got ugly, and they always got ugly.
What if staying here just brought that ugliness with me? What if all the safety I’d found was just borrowed time? And if something did happen…
Could I live with myself if Beau got hurt?
