Chapter 29 Derek
I came home to the mouthwatering scent of chicken roasting and garlic.
The weather was finally starting to turn—that first crisp edge of autumn creeping into the Chicago air—and Théo was wearing a loose fitting black sweater that made his pale skin glow.
The sleeves were long enough to cover his hands, just the tips of his fingers visible as he moved around the kitchen.
He looked devastatingly beautiful. Seeing him in my kitchen made my brain stutter—how is he real, how is he here, how is this my life now?
The soft lights caught in the dark strands of his hair as he slid two plates out of the warming tray, brow furrowed with the same focus he wore on the ice. Herb crusted chicken with a delicate pan sauce, roasted vegetables caramelized at the edges, and a mound of fluffy couscous.
He’d done all of this. For me.
“It smells incredible,” I said, dropping my bag by the door.
“Hana’s recipe. Don’t get used to it though,” he said without looking up. “Your fridge was actually well stocked for once.”
“Wow. A compliment and an insult. I’m getting so spoiled.”
I was starving—practice had been brutal—but I still couldn’t resist crossing the kitchen and wrapping an arm around his waist. He stiffened for a fraction of a second, then relaxed into me as I pulled him in for a kiss.
The kiss was slow and warm, and when I pulled back, his eyes were soft in a way he’d probably hate if he knew.
Fuck. This feeling—so familiar and so foreign at the same time—I wanted to drown in it.
I pulled back slowly. “You taste like wine.”
“It’s called quality control. Go set the table.”
Aspen whined beside us, nudging his head against my thigh. I gave him the attention he demanded while Théo carried our plates to the dining table, rolling his eyes at both of us.
Dinner was easy. We settled into easy conversation—trading stories, filling in the gaps, learning all the small details that didn’t fit into our usual charged exchanges.
“Traverse City,” I said when he asked where I’d grown up. “Northern Michigan. Winters so cold your eyelashes freeze together.”
“That’s cute.” Théo took a sip of wine. “Try Montréal. We had ice storms that knocked out power for days. My mom used to heat soup over candles.”
“I played juniors in Ann Arbor. We practiced outside in the dead of winter when the rink was double booked.”
“Built character, I’m sure.”
“Almost lost a toe to frostbite.”
He smiled at that—a real one, not the sharp smirk he used as armor. Then he pulled out his phone and scrolled for a moment before turning the screen toward me.
Two boys in full hockey gear, drowning in pads that were clearly too big for them. The smaller one—dark haired, scowling even at four years old—was unmistakably Théo. Beside him, a five year old Avery grinned at the camera, missing his two front teeth.
“Oh my God.” I took the phone, zooming in. “You were so angry. Even then.”
“I didn’t want to play hockey. I wanted to do what the pretty girls were doing on the other side of the rink.” He shrugged. “Mom figured it out eventually.”
“Avery looks exactly the same.”
“He peaked early.”
I laughed, handing the phone back. “You were cute.”
“Still am.”
“Not the word I’d use,” I said, deadpan, “but sure.”
“Do continue,” he said, leaning back in his chair like a king granting an audience. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I’ll save it for later then,” I said and went back to my food.
The chicken was perfectly cooked, the sauce rich with white wine and herbs, and I watched Théo eat every bite on his plate without pushing anything around.
Afterwards, we did the dishes together. He washed, I dried. It was stupidly domestic—the kind of mundane routine I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. Théo’s hands were submerged in soapy water, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows, the scars on his forearms visible in the kitchen light.
He caught me looking and raised an eyebrow. “Staring is rude, Sullivan.”
“Can’t help it.” I set down the dish towel and stepped closer, crowding him against the counter. “You’re nice to look at.”
“Such a charmer.” But his voice had gone a little breathless.
I reached past him to turn off the faucet. Water dripped from his fingers onto the floor. Neither of us moved to clean it up.
“I’m going to miss you,” I said quietly. “I know it’s only a few days—”
“Don’t get sappy on me.” He turned in my arms, back against the counter now, facing me. His hands came up to rest on my chest, damp and warm through my shirt. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Promise?”
He looked at me for a long moment. Uncertainty flickered in those dark eyes and then his gaze dropped—the look of someone who had forgotten how to hope.
“Promise,” he said quietly.
I tilted his chin up with my fingers, making him meet my eyes.
Then I leaned down and kissed him.
This time it wasn’t slow. It was hungry, urgent, all the wanting I’d been holding back through small talk and dinner and dishes. He made a sound against my mouth and I swallowed it, pressing him harder against the counter, my hands sliding beneath that soft black sweater to find warm skin.
“Bedroom,” he gasped between kisses. “Unless you want to traumatize your dog.”
I glanced at Aspen, who was watching us from his bed, head tilted.
“Fair point.”
I grabbed Théo’s hand and pulled him down the hallway and he followed, laughing and the sound of it filled something hollow in my chest.
We barely made it through the door before his mouth was on mine again. I used my last functioning brain cell to kick the door shut.
He kissed like he skated—precise, intense, utterly focused. His fingers worked at the buttons of my henley while I walked him backward toward the bed, my hands still under his sweater, greedy for the warmth of his skin.
“Off,” he muttered against my lips, tugging at the fabric. “This needs to be off.”
I reached behind my head and grabbed it by the neckline, pulling it off over my head and throwing it.
It hit the floor somewhere behind me. Then I pulled his sweater over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso, the pale expanse of his chest, the scars I’d traced with my fingers and my mouth and would trace again tonight.
He was so fucking beautiful it made my chest ache.
“You can touch me,” he said. “I won’t break.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Then stop looking at me like I might.” His voice was softer than I expected. “Like I’m something precious.”
“You are though.”
He held my gaze for a moment—something flickering behind his eyes that he didn’t try to hide.
Then he made a frustrated sound and pulled me down onto the bed, rolling us so he was on top, his thighs bracketing my hips.
His hair fell into his eyes and I reached up to push it back, letting my hand linger on his cheek.
“You’re insufferable,” he breathed.
“So I’ve been told.”
He kissed me again—slower this time, deeper—and rocked his hips against mine. I was already hard, had been half-hard since he’d let me pin him against the kitchen counter, and the friction made me groan into his mouth.
“What do you want?” I asked, my hands finding his hips, his waist, the dip of his lower back. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want—” He hesitated, something vulnerable flickering across his face before he smoothed it away. “I want you to touch me. Everywhere. I want to feel it tomorrow.”
“I can do that.”
I flipped us, pressing him into the mattress, and kissed my way down his throat. He tilted his head back to give me access, a soft sigh escaping him. I found that spot behind his ear that made him shiver and lingered there, sucking gently, tasting the salt of his skin.
“Derek—”
“I’ve got you.” I kissed his collarbone, his chest, the space between his ribs where I could feel his heart pounding. “I’ve got you, snowdrop.”
He shuddered at the name.
I took my time working down his body—learning him, memorizing him. The sensitive spot on his left side that made him squirm. The way his breath hitched when I scraped my teeth over his hip bone. The soft trail of dark hair that led beneath his waistband.
I looked up at him, my fingers hooked in the elastic of his pants. “May I?”
“If you don’t, I might actually kill you.”
I laughed and tugged them down, his underwear with them, tossing both aside. His cock sprang free, flushed and hard, already leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him and he let out a sound that went straight to my spine.
“Fuck, your hands—” He arched into my grip. “They’re so big.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“It’s an observation.” He gasped as I stroked him slowly, twisting my wrist. “A very favorable observation.”
I lowered my head and licked a stripe up the underside and his whole body jerked.
“Derek—”
I took him into my mouth, still moving with uncertainty but determined to figure it out.
I paid attention to what made him moan, what made his fingers tighten in my hair, what made his hips stutter upward despite his efforts to hold still.
I hollowed my cheeks and sucked and he let out a broken noise that sounded almost like a sob.
“Good,” he gasped. “So good. You’re so—fuck—you’re perfect.”
The praise washed over me and I took him deeper, relaxing my throat.
“Derek, wait,” he warned, his voice strained. “No. Stop.”
I pulled off immediately, my heart lurching. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I don’t want to come in your mouth.” He looked at me, his eyes dark and serious, his chest heaving. “I want you to fuck me. No—need you to fuck me.”