Chapter Ten #2
He lowers his head, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of my throat.
He doesn’t rush. He lingers there, his tongue tracing my pulse point until I am shaking.
His hands move to my wrists, pinning them above my head—not with the biting grip of the night before, but with a steady, unyielding pressure that tells me I don't have to be the strong one anymore.
I don't have to lead. I just have to be.
“Jules,” I gasp, my back arching as his mouth moves lower, biting and soothing, mapping every inch of skin like he’s claiming territory he intends to keep for a long, long time.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against his skin. “Stay right here with me.”
The soft dirty talk starts then—words meant only for the dark, for the space between two men who had spent too long pretending they didn't need anything.
He tells me exactly what he is going to do to me, his voice a low, melodic promise that makes my head swim.
He praises the way I respond to him, the way I fall apart under his touch, stripping away the shop owner, the stoic witness, until there is only Wes.
He moves between my legs, his weight a solid, heat-drenched anchor. He takes his time, teasing the edges of my control until I am begging, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my heels dragging against the sheets.
“Say it,” Jules whispers, his breath hot against my lips as he pins me to the mattress. “Say you’re mine. Say you’ve stopped looking for the exit.”
“I’m yours,” I choke out, the truth of it shattering the last of my defenses. “I’m not running. I’m staying right here.”
He doesn't wait after that. He takes what I am offering with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. It isn't the frantic, desperate sex of a few hours ago; it’s a conversation. It’s the Real Conversation we hadn't been able to have with words. Every thrust is a sentence, every gasp a period. He’s showing me what it means to be anchored, to be held, to be home.
When the world finally stops spinning, we don't pull apart. We stay tangled together, the sweat cooling on our skin as the first hint of grey dawn begins to bleed through the window. Jules tucks his face into the crook of my neck, his breath finally evening out.
“You still awake?” he murmurs after a long silence.
“Barely,” I say, my limbs feeling like lead.
“Good.” He nips at my jaw, a playful, sharp little reminder. “Because the shower is next. And I’m not done with you yet.”
I groan, but I don't fight him when he hauls me out of bed.
The bathroom is small and cramped, soon filled with the thick, white fog of steam.
Under the scalding spray, the intimacy continues—slow, soapy hands sliding over slick skin, the water masking the sounds we make.
He holds me against the tile, his forehead pressed to mine, the only sound the steady drum of the water and the ragged rhythm of our breathing.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Jules,” I whisper, my eyes closed.
“No,” he says, his hands possessive as they slide down my spine one last time. “I’m the thing that’s going to keep you alive. Now get out and find me some coffee. You need to open The Brew House in thirty minutes.”
The morning light in Sleighbell Springs is different than it is anywhere else. It’s soft, filtered through the heavy greenery of the trees outside, casting long, lazy shadows across the wooden floorboards. It doesn't feel like a countdown today. It feels like an opening.
I stand behind the counter in the Brew House, leaned against the industrial steel of the prep table with a heavy ceramic mug in my hand, watching the steam rise.
I’m wearing a pair of worn jeans and a t-shirt that reads The Brew House, my skin still warm from the quick shower I’d grabbed upstairs.
The shop smells like espresso and the three dozen cinnamon rolls I’d just slid into the deck oven—a domestic, quiet smell that makes the panic of the night before feel like a fever dream.
Jules walks in a few minutes later, his hair still damp. He’s already in his work pants, the dark navy fabric sitting low on his hips. He looks at me, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face.
“You’re doing it,” he says, reaching for the second mug I’d poured.
“Doing what?”
“Thinking. I can practically hear the gears grinding from here. You're wondering how the Chief saw us at the park, aren't you?”
“He’s the Chief, Jules. He sees everything. My concern is that he’s going to think I’m a distraction from your job.”
Jules steps into my space, taking the mug from my hand and setting it on the counter behind me.
He places his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small circles into my skin.
“Wes. The Chief has been trying to get a permanent Captain in that station for three years. He’s not going to be mad.
He’s going to be relieved that someone finally decided this town was worth staying for. ”
“And the scene at the park?”
“It was a picnic, Wes. Not a riot,” Jules says, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “So you marched over to me. So you looked like you wanted to claim me in front of the whole department. Since when did you become so concerned with optics?”
“Since the optics involved me thinking I was losing you,” I admit, the honesty feeling easier now that the sun was up.
“I didn't want to be the reason you gave up the city,” I whisper.
“You aren't the reason I gave it up,” he corrects me, his eyes searching mine. “You’re the reason I found something better. I don’t miss the noise, Wes. I like the quiet. I like the way the stars look from your porch. And I really like the way you look in the morning.”
“You’re incredibly cheesy when you’re sleep-deprived,” I mutter, though I am smiling.
“Make me something to eat and I’ll be even worse,” he teases, leaning in to kiss me one last time before the real world demands our attention.
The Brew House is still in that liminal space between sleep and life, the air cool and smelling of the dark roast I’d started.
I move behind the bar, my movements automatic, watching the man stocking the pastry case.
Jules looks entirely too comfortable in my space. He looks like he’s been there forever.
“You’re going to mess up the display,” I note, leaning on the espresso machine. “The rolls go on the left. Scones on the right.”
“The rolls are the star of the show today, Wes. They get center stage,” he counters, winking at me just as the bells above the door chime.
He doesn't just stop at the winking. He reaches for the industrial milk steaming pitcher, his fingers brushing mine in a way that makes me nearly drop the portafilter.
“I can do the lattes,” he offers, already reaching for the steam wand with the confidence of a man who thinks he can master any machine just because he drives a fire truck.
“Jules, don’t touch that. You’ll scald the milk and the sound will haunt my dreams,” I warn, but I’m not actually moving to stop him.
I watch as he tries to find the sweet spot, the high-pitched screech of the steam filling the quiet shop.
He winces, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.
It’s a ridiculously domestic sight—the Fire Captain of Sleighbell Springs defeated by a twelve-ounce pitcher of 2%.
I step up behind him, my chest pressing against his back as I reach around to guide his hand. “Lower. Angle it toward the side. You want a whirlpool, not a riot.”
He leans back into me, his head tilting to find my gaze. “A whirlpool. Got it. Is that a metaphor for us, Calder?”
I roll my eyes, but I don't pull away. Unlike the years I spent with Aaron where we moved like a single, efficient machine, this feels new and messy and vibrant. I stay there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, anchored by the heat of him and the scent of espresso.
Our first customer is Mrs. Soto. She stops dead in the doorway, her eyes darting from me to Jules, who is currently licking a smear of frosting off his thumb. The silence lasts three seconds too long.
“Morning, Mrs. Soto,” Jules chirps, leaning against the glass case. “Looking for the extra-strong roast?”
“Mr. Morgan,” she breathes, her gaze flickering to me. “I... I didn't realize the department was helping with the morning rush.”
“It’s a new community outreach program,” Jules lies smoothly, his voice thick with that effortless charm that makes everyone in this town trust him with their lives. “Very hands-on. We find the most essential businesses and... provide support.”
“Support,” Mrs. Soto echoes, her gaze landing on the way Jules’s hand is resting just inches from mine on the counter. She looks at me, her head tilting. “It’s usually just you and Aaron running this show, Wes. I didn't know you were looking for a third person.”
I feel the familiar itch to deflect, to say he’s just stopping by for a scone and leave it at that. But then I look at Jules. He’s waiting. Not pressuring, just... waiting to see if I’ll pull the bridge up or let her walk across it.
“Tight circles aren't always easy to break into, Mrs. Soto,” I say, the words feeling like a landslide in my throat.. “I decided I liked the company. And the Captain makes a decent cinnamon roll.”
Jules beams, a bright, triumphant thing that makes Mrs. Soto blink as if she’s looking directly into the sun. She knows. She absolutely knows, and I can practically see her mental Rolodex spinning, preparing the phone calls she’ll make the second she hits the sidewalk.
I feel the heat climb into my cheeks, but I don't look away. I reach for a cup, my movements steady. “What can I get for you, Mrs. Soto?”
She places her order, her eyes taking in the way Jules stays in my orbit.
It is a small thing—a shoulder brush, a shared look—but in Sleighbell Springs, it’s a headline.
By noon, the whole town would know. And for the first time, I don't care.
I don't feel like a man standing on a fault line.
I feel like a man standing on solid ground.
As she leaves, Jules lets out a low whistle. “And that, my friend, is how you start a fire without a match.”
“You’re a menace,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
“I’m your menace,” he corrects, pushing me back against the glass of the front door. The shop is empty again, just for a moment, the morning light pouring in and turning the dust motes into gold.
I’ve spent so many years looking at this shop as a box—a place to keep me safe, a place to hide.
But with his hands on my shoulders and the scent of him mixing with the dark roast, it doesn't feel like a box anymore.
It feels like a beginning. I think about the apartment upstairs, the one that used to feel too big.
I think about the text on his phone, the 'son' that Miller wrote, and the way Jules didn't even hesitate to claim this place. He isn't a floater. He isn't a ghost. He’s the most real thing I’ve ever touched.
He searches my face, his hands resting on my shoulders. “You okay? No more what-ifs?”
I look at him and I realize the fortress is gone. I didn't need the walls if I wasn't under attack. I wasn't waiting for the impact anymore. I was the impact.
“No,” I say, leaning in to kiss him. It is a slow, settled kind of kiss. A promise. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He grins. “Good. Because I think I’m going to need an extra shot of espresso if I have to get through a full shift with you.”
“I’ll give you an extra shot of something,” I mutter, pulling away as the next car pulls into the lot.
“Promises, promises,” he teases.
I move back behind the bar, letting the next wave of light and people in. I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore. The bell chimes, signaling the start of the day, but as I look back at the man standing in my shop, I know that for once, I’m finally home.