Chapter 21
Sean
Beau showed up at the hospital with Rafael and a box of my things packed neatly from my apartment.
The hospital discharged me that afternoon with a few stitches, some bruised ribs, and strict instructions to take it easy.
Beau listened to the doctor like they were giving him the secrets to life itself, nodding seriously at every word while I sat there wondering if he planned to bubble wrap me once we got home.
Spoiler: He did not bubble wrap me.
But he did carry me from the car to his front door like I weighed nothing, while I protested weakly and reminded him I could walk just fine.
His apartment, our place now, I guess, was nestled near the edge of Sugarpaw, close to the woods but still within the main town area.
It was bigger than I’d expected, all warm wood and clean lines, with a well-equipped kitchen and big windows that let in tons of sunlight.
The kind of place that made you want to bake bread, wear oversized sweaters, and kiss someone by the windows.
“Okay,” I said once he’d set me down on the couch and tucked a blanket around me like a burrito. “You do realize I’m not an actual invalid, right?”
Beau raised a brow as he brought me a mug of tea. “You’re injured. You’re also my mate. That means I take care of you.”
“I’m not that fragile.”
“You’re adorable when you’re grumpy,” he said, kissing the top of my head before disappearing into the kitchen to make dinner.
I sank into the couch cushions. This was real. This was happening.
I’d lived in cramped student housing and shared dorms and run-down apartments. Those places never really felt like home. But this felt different.
There were hooks on the wall for me to hang my aprons. Room in the pantry for my flour stash.
A spot on the nightstand already cleared for my alarm clock and lotion and dog-eared gay romance novels.
Beau came back with soup and grilled cheese. Nothing fancy, but it was perfect. We ate on the couch, our knees touching, the TV playing some show neither of us was really watching.
He didn’t hover too much. Didn’t fuss the way I half-expected.
He just made sure I had what I needed and checked in with gentle glances and small touches. His thumb brushing my hand, the way he tucked the blanket under my legs when I shifted.
And when the dishes were done and I started to nod off, he didn’t say a word.
He just scooped me up again, carried me to bed, and curled up around me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever held. I slept better than I had in ages.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of cinnamon and sugar and coffee.
Beau was already in the kitchen, standing at the stove in flannel pajama pants and no shirt, flipping pancakes.
The muscles in his back flexed with every movement, and honestly, it was a miracle I didn’t pass out on sight.
“You trying to kill me first thing in the morning?” I asked, voice rough with sleep.
He turned with a grin. “Just thought I’d make your favorite. Didn’t mean to be a menace.”
I padded over, stealing one of the finished pancakes off the plate. “You are a menace. A delicious one.”
He leaned down, brushing a kiss against my temple. “I like you here.”
“Me too,” I told him.
We fell into a routine quicker than I thought we would.
Mornings were slow and cozy. We had pancakes or eggs, shared coffee, sometimes Beau’s giant arms wrapped around me while we stood at the counter half-awake.
I still had a few days of recovery left, so I wasn’t back at the bakery full-time yet, but Beau brought me Bear and Bun pastries every afternoon, warmed just the way I liked them.
We rearranged the kitchen to make space for my baking tools, and Beau didn’t even blink when I showed him how much gear I had. He even gave me the bigger drawer.
“I want you to feel like this is your home too,” he said when I hesitated.
“It already does,” I replied, meaning every word.
We argued about fridge organization (he was a top-shelf chaos monster, I was a structured system kind of guy), but that was about it.
Evenings were our favorite. We cooked dinner together. Well, I cooked, he hovered. Then we curled up on the couch, sometimes watching movies, sometimes just talking.
Sometimes just being. The nightmares still came sometimes.
I’d jolt awake, heart racing, breath caught in my throat. But Beau was always there. Always pulling me close, grounding me with soft murmurs and warm hands.
“I’ve got you,” he’d say. “You’re safe.”
And I believed him. One night, a few days after I’d moved in, we were sitting on the ledge by the windows, with mugs of tea, watching the stars come out.
The air smelled like pine and late-summer breeze. Crickets chirped. Everything was quiet.
I glanced over at him. “You know… I used to think I’d never get this.”
“This?” Beau asked.
“This.” I gestured vaguely, my hand fluttering between us before resting against his chest. “A home. A mate.”
Beau looked at me for a long moment. Like he was memorizing every inch of my face, every shadow and freckle, every little flicker of emotion I couldn’t hide.
He reached over slowly, giving me the chance to pull away if I needed to. But of course I didn’t. I leaned into his touch like it was instinct.
His big, calloused hand cradled mine gently, thumb brushing slow, soothing circles over my knuckles.
Then, without a word, he lifted it to his mouth and pressed the softest kiss to my skin. Another followed. Then another.
Each one warmer, deeper, lingering a little longer like he was anchoring himself there.
“Well, you’ve got it now,” he said, voice husky and low. “You’ve got me. For good.”
I couldn’t breathe for a second. My chest felt tight in the best way. Like my heart had expanded too fast for my ribs to keep up.
His eyes didn’t waver. Didn’t flicker away. He was serious. Beau wasn’t just saying it because he thought I needed to hear it. He was saying it because he meant it.
“I love you, Sean,” he added, quietly but fiercely. Like a vow.
The world stopped moving.
“I love you, Beau,” I whispered, and the second the words left me, something inside my chest unlocked.
His breath hitched. Then he surged forward, not like a bear but like a man who’d been holding something back for far too long.
Our mouths met in a kiss that was gentle at first, tender and slow, but then his hand cupped the back of my neck, and I opened for him with a soft gasp, and everything tilted.
He tasted like cinnamon and tea, warm and familiar.
I slid my hands up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his flannel, tugging him closer until there was no space left between us.
He made a low sound in his throat and kissed me deeper, more firmly, as if he needed me to feel what he couldn’t put into words.
And I did. Every brush of his lips told me: You’re mine. I’m not letting go.
My body ached in places that were still healing, but I didn’t care. I would’ve let him kiss me forever if it meant I got to stay in that moment just a little longer.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, his forehead rested against mine.
His hand stayed at the nape of my neck, fingers threading into my hair like he couldn’t bear to let me go.
“You sure?” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “Because if I start picturing this forever, Sean… I’m not gonna be able to stop.”
I blinked back sudden tears. “Good. Don’t stop. I want you to picture it. I want to build it.”
He let out a shaky laugh and kissed my cheek. Then my nose. Then the corner of my mouth. “You’re too good for me.”
“Debatable,” I murmured, smiling as I brushed my nose against his. “But you’re stuck with me now.”
“Good,” he echoed.
Then he pulled me close again, wrapping his arms around me and tucking me under his chin like he needed to protect me from the entire world.
I melted into him, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, his throat, the curve of his shoulder. I couldn’t stop touching him. Couldn’t stop reminding myself he was here.
We stayed like that for a long while, curled together on the window ledge.
His thumb kept rubbing slow circles against my side. My hand stayed pressed over his heart, counting the steady, soothing rhythm.
And then I felt it, deep in my chest. A pull. A longing.
“Beau?” I whispered, my voice small in the quiet.
“Yeah?” he murmured, lips brushing the top of my head.
“I want your mark.”
His body went still. His breath caught, and then slowly let out in a soft exhale. He leaned back to look at me, eyes dark with emotion. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I want everyone to know I’m yours. And I want to feel it, Beau. The bond. The closeness. I want to belong to you completely.”
He looked at me like I’d given him the world.
“You already do,” he said. “But I’d be honored, Sean. Truly.”
I tilted my head to the side, baring my neck, heart pounding in anticipation. He cupped my face with both hands, reverent, like I was something precious.
His lips brushed over the spot where my neck curved into my shoulder, slow and deliberate, soft as silk. Then he opened his mouth, and I felt the edge of his teeth against my skin.
The pressure built slowly, then sharply. There was heat, pain, then a rush of something deeper. Something primal and electric and right.
My wolf howled inside me, not in pain, but in joy.
I gasped and gripped his arms, letting it all wash over me. The pain, the pleasure, the heat of the bond forming between us.
When he pulled back, he licked the mark gently. Then he kissed it, sealing it. My heart was racing, my whole body humming. But I’d never felt so grounded.
“Mine,” he whispered, voice like gravel and honey.
“Yours,” I echoed, eyes fluttering open to meet his.