Chapter 10
Sean/ Beau
SEAN
Near closing time, the bakery had taken on that soft, quiet hush that always made me feel oddly safe.
The lights were dimmed, the last crumbs swept from tables, and the smell of fresh bread lingered in the air like a lullaby.
The others had gone home for the evening. Just me and Beau now. And I didn’t mind. Or I didn’t, until I heard him curse upstairs. It wasn’t just a muttered annoyance, either.
It was sharp, loud, frustrated. “Damn it.” A thud followed. Maybe his palm hitting the desk. Maybe his head.
My chest tightened. I thanked the last lingering customer, flipped the CLOSED sign, locked the door, and turned off the lights before heading up to the second floor.
I knocked gently. “Beau?”
“Come in,” he grumbled, his voice low and rough.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside, and couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my mouth.
The office had changed so much in the last few weeks. What had once been a barely furnished space with unfinished floors and walls, and rickety shelves was now warm and homey.
A thick wool rug covered the hardwood underfoot. The soft armchair in the corner had a little throw pillow that said Whisk Taker. I still couldn’t believe Beau let me buy that.
My heart warmed. He’d started asking me about furniture picks now and then, especially when he wasn’t sure if something would “look okay.”
He always said it like it didn’t matter, but the way he listened? It did. It mattered to him that I liked it. That I felt at home.
“Hey,” I said gently, closing the door behind me. “Something wrong?”
He looked up from behind the desk, his brow still furrowed. But when he saw me, his shoulders dropped just slightly. A breath he didn’t realize he was holding slipped free.
“The damn computer keeps freezing every time I try to finish the inventory report,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “I swear I’m two clicks away from throwing it out the window.”
I laughed softly and stepped into his space, easily now. The way I knew I could.
“Want me to take a look? I’m pretty decent with computers. And if you don’t take a break, I’m ninety percent sure you will end up breaking the bakery’s only PC,” I said.
He cracked a tired smile. “Fine, fine. You win. I’ll go grab a cold drink and finish locking up downstairs.”
“Deal,” I told him.
I slid into his chair after he left, cracked my knuckles, and got to work.
The issue wasn’t anything serious. Just some memory bloat, a few too many browser tabs open, and a background program hogging all the power.
I closed everything, cleared the temp files, and rebooted the whole thing. Smooth and easy. But after the screen flickered back to life, I hesitated.
Something in me, curiosity or paranoia, itched to know. And I couldn’t help it.
I opened the browser again, clicked into a few cooking forums I used to visit obsessively back when I was still in school, when I was trying to escape Chef Orin’s kitchen mentally if not physically.
A few of them were still active. Professionals. Students. Hobbyists. The kind of people who knew everything about everything in culinary school circles.
On one of them, a post stood out.
Looking for info on a former student. Reward available. Contact privately.
The name listed was S. G.
Under it: Student left program abruptly. Personal items left behind. Family concerned.
The poster’s name? Orin C.
My stomach turned. Ice shot through my spine.
I clicked back, checked a few other places. Reddit. Discord channels. Even an old Facebook group I hadn’t visited in years.
The same post had been duplicated, subtly reworded, but always the same intent. Like bait laid out in a dozen places. First the PI sniffing around the bakery, and now this.
My chest constricted. He’s looking for me. Actively. He hadn’t given up.
A tremble worked its way down my arms. I wasn’t even supposed to be online like this, not where my name might ping back into the world. My vision blurred.
And then a hand landed on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of the chair. But it was warm. Familiar. Solid. Beau.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice low but full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
I turned toward him too fast. My heart thudded against my ribs like it was trying to break free. I scrambled to close the window, shut the browser.
“Nothing!” I blurted. Too quickly.
His eyes narrowed just slightly, and his hand didn’t leave my shoulder.
I really wanted to tell him, but my voice wouldn’t come. Not with the bile still rising in my throat and the taste of old fear sitting bitter on my tongue.
He didn’t push.
Instead, Beau pulled the extra chair close and sat beside me, silent for a long moment. His presence alone calmed my pulse, steadied the noise in my head.
“Whatever it is,” he said at last, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”
I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.
But even as I nodded, that creeping dread returned. Orin knew how to look. How to twist things.
And now, he was actively reaching into the digital world like claws stretching across states, trying to find me. Beau's hand remained on my shoulder. Anchoring. Real.
I told myself I was safe. That he wouldn’t find me here.
But the fear had teeth, and it was waking up.
BEAU
Sean still looked pale as we stepped out of the bakery, the flickering glow of the closed sign casting shadows across his face.
Whatever he’d seen on the computer back in the office had rattled him.
He hadn’t said much after closing the window, and I didn’t press yet. But my gut was coiled tight, instincts prickling beneath my skin like static.
“I’ll walk you home,” I offered.
He didn’t argue.
I wanted to believe it was because he wanted the company, not because something or someone had scared him enough to say yes without hesitation.
But the way he glanced over his shoulder, fingers twitching at his sides, told me otherwise. He didn’t speak. Neither did I.
I could feel the words pressing against my tongue, the questions that wouldn’t stop spinning in my head.
Who are you running from, Sean? What are you afraid of? Why won’t you let me help?
I didn’t want to push. Not when it felt like we were finally getting somewhere, not when he was starting to trust me.
But patience was never something my bear was good at. And when it came to Sean, every possessive, protective instinct I’d buried deep came clawing to the surface.
He should’ve told me by now. Should’ve confided in me. Didn’t he know I’d do anything for him?
I was so lost in my thoughts I almost missed the way Sean stiffened beside me, his hand suddenly grabbing mine like it was a lifeline.
I followed his gaze.
A dark sedan sat parked just across the street. Motor running. Windows tinted.
The shadow of a face in the driver’s seat turned just enough to catch the orange gleam of the bakery’s exterior light.
Recognition flickered across Sean’s face. His grip on my hand tightened.
That was all I needed.
I stepped forward instinctively, my body placing itself between Sean and the car. My lip curled into a snarl before I could stop it, a low growl rising in my throat.
My bear surged, claws brushing just beneath the surface of my skin.
The car engine revved. Tires squealed as it sped off down the street, disappearing into the night like a coward.
Coward or not, they’d made a mistake coming here.
Sean let go of my hand, arms hugging himself tightly. He was shaking. Not just from fear, but from whatever memories that car had dragged back up from wherever he’d buried them.
I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over his shoulders, my hands lingering there, hoping the warmth of my body might steady him.
“Hey,” I said softly. “You okay?”
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.
“Sean,” I murmured.
He didn’t look at me.
“Come here.”
Slowly, he rose from his seat, eyes flicking to mine. When he got close enough, I reached out and gently tugged him into my lap.
He didn’t hesitate.
His arms slipped around my neck, and he leaned in, pressing his face to the curve of my throat. He inhaled, shaky, as if trying to breathe me in.
I held him close, one hand stroking his back, the other resting firmly on his hip. My chest swelled with something primal. Possessive. Fierce.
“You’re safe,” I whispered into his hair. “No one’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m around.”
His breath hitched. His grip tightened. We didn’t speak. There was no need to.
I felt him soften in my arms, the way his heartbeat slowly synced with mine. My bear settled too, soothed by his scent, by the feel of him exactly where he belonged.