Chapter 21
Sex with Beckett was… unreal. The way he softened under my hands, the way his breath stuttered when I found the pace that unraveled him—yeah, that’s burned into me.
I keep catching flashes of his face after, loose and wrecked and smiling like I’d taken the weight off his shoulders. Maybe I looked the same. Probably did.
It took a lot of restraint not to just shove my cock into his pretty tight hole right away, but when it sucked me in like it had been waiting for its perfect fit, it about did me in.
What stays with me more than the spice is the trust. He handed me the reins without flinching, and for someone like me, that’s not a small thing—it’s everything.
But sitting here at my station, waiting for my next client, I don’t feel like I’m the one holding them.
If anything, he’s got me by the heart. I want to text him, ask how his day’s going, whether the new dish he wanted to try out at Dragonfly came together, or if he’s landed on a title for his cookbook.
I want the small stuff, the morning-after jokes, the mid-shift check-ins, the “ate yet?” and “come over.”
That’s what scares the hell out of me. It’s been a long time since I called anything a relationship.
You spend enough years alone, and your life snaps into a rigid pattern—where the shoes go, how the coffee’s made, what time the lights go off.
But Beckett rains down on those lines like they’re chalk on the pavement, and I’m not angry about it, I’m… relieved.
I thought control was my oxygen, the only way I could survive.
With him, it feels more like a jacket I can take off and hang by the door.
I don’t lose myself. I don’t feel the impulse to control.
It’s jarring but also freeing as hell. And when I dare to look toward the future, it’s him stealing half my fries, arguing about movie choices, falling asleep on my couch after he’s made me taste test a new recipe. I don’t feel trapped, I feel alive.
So yeah, I’m tempted to keep pretending I’m untouchable.
But the truth is simple and inconvenient, and I’ve been doing nothing more than fight it.
I want him. Not just the way he comes apart in my hands, but the way he laughs, the way he listens, the way he allows me to be more than the guy who always has a plan.
I realize what that feeling is, and it knocks the wind right out of me.
I startle when there’s a knock, and I look up to see Jaxon standing in my doorway.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I echo.
“How’s it going?” He steps into my station, eyes tracking the stencil on my tray like he’s looking for clues.
“Fine. Waiting for my next client. Finishing his sleeve.”
“Sweet.” He rocks on his heels. “I’m heading out—grabbing Alex and hitting the shelter. With the open house next weekend, he wants every animal looking like a calendar model.”
“Yeah, it sounds like a good time. I’ll be there.”
One of Jaxon’s eyebrows climbs.
“No, I’m not getting a pet.”
“Famous last words,” he mutters.
“Fuck off. Is that all you wanted?”
“I was gonna ask how you’re doing, but maybe now I won’t.”
“One could only be so lucky.” I roll my eyes.
He ignores that and takes a seat. Why is he sitting down?
“So tell me, my dear old best friend, how are you?”
The question lands like a jab.
“I need next Thursday off,” I blurt, needing to get this conversation over with.
“Sure, got a hot date with Beckett?” he smirks.
“Nope, my father.”
The smirk drains. I can feel his eyes on me. I’ve told him a little bit about my childhood. Nothing in great detail, just that my mother died when I was young, and my father was a shitty human being and is sitting in prison for money laundering.
“You’re going to go visit your dad in prison? In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never gone to visit him. What’s changed?”
I fidget in my seat at the uncomfortable conversation. I hate talking about my father. The thought of him, my childhood, makes my skin crawl.
“He’s up for parole and wants me to come speak on his behalf at the parole board meeting.”
Jaxon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I don’t blame him. Even I can’t believe I’m contemplating going. I haven’t been in the same room as my father for twenty years. The thought makes my stomach want to hurl.
I hold my hands up in defense, like they’re gonna protect me from the onslaught of my own thoughts swirling around in my head. “I haven’t decided whether I’m going. I just don’t want to leave you scrambling to move appointments if I decide at the last minute.”
He nods, the teasing gone. “You don’t talk much about your childhood. What you have said… wasn’t great. That’s a heavy decision.”
“I keep flipping the coin. Either way, I want him out of my life for good. I just don’t know which choice will let me sleep at night.”
Jaxon leans forward, forearms on his knees. “Here’s what I know. For the last few weeks, I’ve seen you smile more. The other day, you were laughing so hard you had tears streaming down your face. Don’t even get me started on the world’s worst dad joke.”
“It landed,” I protest.
“On the floor, sure.” He softens. “Point is, you’re not the guy I met years ago. You can handle more than you think. And you don’t have to carry it alone. You have people to lean on, like me… or Beckett.”
My head snaps up. He’s wearing that knowing grin that makes me want to throw a paper towel roll at him.
“Looks like things are getting serious,” he says.
“They are,” I admit. “He came with me to Aunt Sofia’s.”
Jaxon whistles. “Family dinner? That’s not casual.”
“It wasn’t.” I glance at my phone, still fighting the urge to text. “He makes the noise in my head… quieter.”
Jaxon stands and clasps my shoulder, steady and warm. “Then whatever you decide about your dad, decide it with the version of you who laughs now. The one who lets people in.”
I nod. “I will.”
He steps back toward the door. “And hey—if a pit mix named Meatball follows you home from the shelter, I’m not saying I told you so.”
“Get out,” I say, but I’m smiling when he goes.
The shop slows to a crawl after that. By the time my last client waves goodbye, my shoulders feel welded to my neck, and my lower back is filing formal complaints. Hours bent over skin will do that to you.
I’m so tired, I walk into my house on muscle memory—keys in the bowl, boots by the door, lights low.
I open the fridge and pull out Aunt Sofia’s sauce, set water to boil.
Noodles, sauce, done. It’s simple, but it tastes like being looked after.
Beckett would approve. So would she. The thought sneaks a grin onto my face.
The quiet presses in, and with it the thing I keep circling: my father, the parole board, the ask I don’t owe him. Jaxon’s voice threads through—decide it with the version of you that laughs now. I don’t know what that decision is yet, only that it shouldn’t be made from fear.
Which is why I pick up my phone before I can overthink it.
Me: Home? Also, your enchiladas have ruined me. Rude.
Something in my chest unfolds when he replies right away. It’s ridiculous how fast the tension I didn’t know I was holding slips off my shoulders.
I eat at the counter, the house too quiet for how full I feel.
When the dishes are done, I sit with the two big pieces of my life laid out like flash cards: the past that wants a favor, and the present that keeps offering me a hand.
I picture Beckett arguing about bacon, stealing a forkful of my eggs, bumping my knee under the table, and not making a big deal of it.
Somewhere between the sauce simmering and his name lighting up my screen, I stop pretending this is casual.
Maybe I decided that a while ago; I just know I’m falling.
And as I turn off the lights and head for bed, I know two more things: tomorrow, I’ll keep figuring out what peace looks like with my father, and I’ll show up for breakfast.
“You know,” I say, coming up behind Beckett as he flips a perfectly cooked slice of French toast. “I think that someone should know the secret recipe to your bacon,” I tease as I cage him.
“I mean, what if something happens?” He throws his head back in laughter, and I bury my head into his neck and breathe in his scent. Like cinnamon and vanilla.
“Are you saying I’m in danger, sir?”
I growl. My hand roams over his taught stomach before reaching down to squeeze his dick. “Of course not. I’m just saying, what if someone’s in dire need of bacon and you’re incapacitated at that moment?” I suck and lick the skin behind his ear.
Beckett moans, leaning back into me. “Dire need, you say?”
“Dire,” I whisper into his ear.
“NEVER!” he battle cries, which is followed by a diabolical laugh as he turns around, spatula aimed at my chest.
My hands go up. “Okay, okay.”
We both lose it, laughing so hard my stomach aches. I catch his hips, haul him in, and drop a quick kiss on the top of his head before swatting his ass.
He yelps, glaring over his shoulder, but he’s smiling.
I finish setting the table while he brings over the last stack of French toast. The whole thing feels… easy. Domestic, even. I didn’t think that word fit me, but here I am, grinning like an idiot while he sets the plate down, pulls out his chair, and sits next to me at the table.
“What?” he asks, suspicious.
I shake my head, still wearing that dumb smile. “Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re smiling.”
“Yeah,” I say, letting the word hang a moment. “I noticed.”
After filling our plates, we sit in comfortable silence. I catch him sneaking glances my way as I do the same to him, both of us cracking a smile every time it happens.
“You’re different, you know?” he finally says.
“What do you mean?”
“This version of you. I’ve never seen it before. But it doesn’t feel like a version, it feels like the real you. You’re funny, and not as grumpy as you make everyone believe.”
I raise a brow and give a little grunt.
“See, that’s just cute.” He goes to pinch my cheek, and I swat his hand away.
I have officially lost control where this man is concerned. That thought alone should set off every alarm I’ve carefully installed in my life, but instead it… settles. Which is worse.
I’ve never let hookups get playful. Joking means comfort, and comfort means attachment, and attachment means you have something to lose.
With other guys, it was simple—sex, release, goodbye.
No teasing, no lingering, no mid-morning French toast. They didn’t get the soft version of me because I never let there be a soft version. I told myself that was smart.
I have lost all restraint over this man.
The thought nearly does me in. My faith in relationships has never been there.
I watched my mother live a miserable life.
She stayed with a man who didn’t see her, didn’t love her the way she deserved.
It breaks my heart. She deserved to be happy and loved.
I kept thinking someone should come in and love her right, pick her up, make her laugh again.
No one did. And when she died, I made a promise to myself: fine, then I won’t need anyone.
I’ll build a life that runs on my time, my rules, my work.
If no one can disappoint me, no one can break me.
But sitting here now, with Beckett in my life—loud, mouthy, talented, infuriating—I keep wondering if I got it wrong.
Maybe I wasn’t saving myself from heartache.
Maybe I was just starving myself. Because whatever this thing is with him—the way I want to text him, the way I listen when he talks about food, the way I relax without realizing it—that’s not nothing.
That’s the thing I told myself didn’t exist.
So was I missing out all along… or is it just him?
I don’t know. Maybe I never will. What I do know is this: I don’t want to go back to the way it was.
Not after feeling him trust me enough to let me in.
Not after hearing him laugh in my kitchen.
Not after realizing he sees past the control and doesn’t run.
I spent years making sure nobody could get close enough to leave.
Now I’m thinking this one… I’m not letting him go.
“Hey,” Beckett says, voice softer than his usual sass. “Where’d you go? I promise never to try to pinch your cheeks again.”
I blink back at him and really look—messy hair, eyes too earnest for his own good, flour on his shirt from breakfast. My heart does that stupid little flip. Yeah, I’m gone.
“Come here.” I catch his hand and tug him onto my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He settles there, warm and solid, and when I breathe him in—coffee, syrup, kitchen—I get that rare feeling I don’t say out loud.
If I was questioning it before, I’m not anymore. I love him.
“Come over tonight when you get off work?” I say into his hair.
He tips back, a grin sliding onto his face. “See? I knew you missed me.”
I hook a finger under his chin so he has to meet my eyes. “I do.”
He sucks in a quick breath, eyes searching mine like he’s making sure I mean it. I let him see everything… no armor, no jokes.
“Okay,” he says, voice gone soft around the edges. “Yeah. I’ll come over.”
I cup the back of his head and pull him in for a kiss, slow and sure, not the kind that’s about heat—though we’ve got plenty of that—but the kind that says stay. He melts into it, hand fisting in my shirt.
When we break, he rests his forehead against mine. “You know,” he murmurs. “For a guy who doesn’t do relationships, you’re doing a suspiciously good job.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, thumb brushing his jaw. “I finally found someone worth doing it for.”