Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Angus
I haven’t had this much fun over dinner in a long time.
It wasn’t just the food—though yeah, those fried pickles were borderline spiritual—it was the ease.
The kind of comfort you don’t usually get on a first real date.
Callum and I laughed more than we ate, and every time our knees bumped under the table or our fingers brushed as we reached for fries at the same time, it felt electric.
But not in the overwhelming, adrenaline-soaked way. It felt like something good. Something that fit.
We leave the restaurant with full bellies and lighter hearts, a warm Vegas evening wrapping around us like an old friend.
The breeze is gentle, and the sky overhead is smeared with the kind of stars you can only half see in the city.
He walks beside me, close but not crowding, and when our hands brush this time, neither of us pulls away.
He just quietly laces his fingers through mine. And that simple act nearly knocks the wind out of me.
I glance at him, and he’s looking straight ahead, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But there’s a little upturn at the corner of his mouth. That smile of his is small and smug, like he knows exactly how wrecked I am by a single touch. I squeeze his hand and smile right back.
We walk a bit like that, just hand in hand, two idiots trying not to grin like teenagers. At one point, he bumps his shoulder lightly against mine, and I let out a laugh, almost giddy.
“This is nice,” he says.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It really is.”
We round the corner, and I hesitate, reluctant to call it a night.
He slows and looks up at me. “You feel like walking more? It’s kind of perfect out.”
I absolutely do, but I glance at my watch. “I’ve got to check on the dogs.”
“Ah. The noble duties of a Dogcle.”
“Exactly,” I say, dragging my free hand down my face. “They’ve probably staged a coup by now. I’m imagining a toilet-paper monarchy and Lady Wigglebottom wearing my hoodie as a cape.”
Callum laughs, but it’s softer now. He looks at me, and it’s not just playful anymore—it’s fond.
I take a breath. Okay. Be brave.
“You could, uh… come with me,” I say. “If you want. I don’t have any beers in, but I make decent tea. And I think Cookie likes you better than me at this point.”
He looks at me for a second, thoughtful.
I don’t want to pressure him. Maybe this is too much, too soon.
But then he steps in and kisses me. It’s short, barely more than a brush of lips.
But holy hell, it’s everything. Warm and soft and grounding but somehow still enough to send sparks straight through my spine.
I kiss him back, one hand on the small of his back, leaning down instinctively. He’s definitely on his tiptoes. When we break apart, he exhales a little laugh, breath warm against my jaw. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll come.”
And just like that, he slides back into step beside me, our hands finding each other again.
The beagles are waiting, probably judging.
But tonight? Tonight, I’ve got backup. And for the first time in days, I feel like I might actually survive this Dogcle gig—with a little help—and maybe a whole lot of kisses.
By the time we pull up outside Ally’s house, I half expect to see smoke rising from the windows and Cranky wearing a crown of shredded couch cushion foam. But everything’s surprisingly quiet.
Too quiet.
“Either they’ve accepted me as their ruler,” I murmur as we head up the walk, “or they’ve finished laying their trap.”
Callum smirks. “You say that like you aren’t secretly in love with them.”
“I am. And it’s deeply inconvenient.”
The moment the door opens, chaos resumes. Cookie barrels into my shin like a small, determined linebacker. Mopey starts his dramatic whining, Cranky barks once—disapprovingly—and Lady Wigglebottom is running tight zoomie circles around Callum, tail wagging like she’s trying to create lift.
“Hi, yes,” I say, trying to corral all four with one arm, “this is exactly as bad as it looks.”
Callum just laughs and crouches down. “Hey, Wiggles,” he says softly, ruffling her ears. “Miss me?”
She licks his nose in reply.
I stare. “Okay, rude. I feed her.”
“You also tried to put her in a raincoat yesterday.”
“She looked cold!”
“She looked betrayed.”
Admittedly, she also looked cute as hell, and sending the photo to him and Ally was kind of the highlight of my day.
We get everyone settled—water refreshed, a quick round of garden pee breaks, and a firm but futile speech about not chewing the remote controls. Then I finally make tea, and we collapse onto the couch.
The beagles claim their usual spots, forming a warm, snoring barrier of fur and gentle dog farts between us.
Somehow, we still end up close. Shoulders brushing.
Thighs aligned. The TV’s on low—a cooking show no one’s watching—and the only light is from the lamp in the corner, casting everything in soft amber.
It feels… intimate. Quiet in a way that matters.
“Your sister’s got a good place here,” Callum says after a beat, his voice lower now.
“She does. My apartment is about ten minutes out and, admittedly, nowhere near as nice as this. This here is all Ally. She loves patterns. And throw pillows. And monogrammed tea towels I’m not allowed to use.”
He smiles, then nudges my leg with his. “Still. You’re good at this. The dogs. The chaos.”
I let out a breath. “I feel like I’m faking it.”
“No,” he says. “You’re not. You care. That’s obvious.”
I turn my head to look at him. He’s already looking at me. For a long second, we just sit there like that. Neither of us making a move. Just… being. Holding the weight of it. Then he shifts a little closer. His knee presses into mine. Our hands, resting on the couch cushion between us, graze.
I let mine drift, slow and tentative, until our fingers link. It’s simple. Quiet. But it shoots right through me.
His voice is barely above a whisper. “Is this okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
My thumb brushes the back of his hand, and I can feel his pulse under the skin. Or maybe it’s mine. I’m not sure. Everything feels a little too charged to tell the difference.
Then he leans in. It’s slower this time—like we’re both testing the moment. His lips meet mine, and it’s soft, warm, but deeper now. We’re both aware of the weight behind it. The permission. The want.
His hand curls into my shirt. Mine slides behind his neck. But just as it begins to tip into something heavier—something that sparks in all the places I’ve tried to keep quiet—Cranky lets out a loud bark from the floor, completely unimpressed.
Callum pulls back with a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. “Cockblocker.”
“Dude,” I mutter, grinning even as I stare at the ceiling like maybe it’ll grant me patience.
We sit like that for a moment—his head resting against me, our hands still joined, the dogs forming a sleepy pile of judgment at our feet.
“Stay,” I say before I can think better of it. “Just for a little while.” Or all night, I want to add, but I’m not sure if that’s pushing it or not.
He looks up at me, eyes dark, soft, searching. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but sure. “I’d like that.”
There’s a pause—just long enough for us to feel the weight of what we’re doing. Then he leans in again, and this time when our mouths meet, it isn’t tentative. It’s hungry. Certain. His hands slide into my hair, and mine grip his waist, pulling him closer until he’s almost on my lap.
The kiss deepens, slow and then sudden, like a match flaring in the dark.
Callum tastes like mint and tea and something sweeter I can’t place—something distinctly him.
And he kisses like he means it, like he’s been thinking about it for days, like he’s felt every near miss, every smile, every charged silence and casual brush of skin.
And so have I.
He shifts, straddling my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I barely hold back my needy groan when his weight settles against my cock.
His fingers trail along the back of my neck, sending sparks down my spine.
The pressure of his chest against mine, the way our bodies align with a near-perfect click, is dizzying.
My hands roam instinctively—broad palms sliding under the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing the warm skin at his lower back. He shivers against me, then exhales a soft, shaky laugh into my mouth.
“This okay?” I murmur against his lips.
His eyes flick open, pupils blown, breaths fast. “More than okay.”
There’s emotion in it, though. Not just heat. This isn’t some rushed hookup—it’s tender, deliberate. Every kiss feels like a question, and every answer is yes. He clings to me like he trusts me to catch him, and I hold him like I never want to let him go.
Our kisses slow, then deepen again, his tongue touching mine in a gentle exploration totally at odds with the heat licking up my spine and the throb of my dick. It all changes with the swiftness of a northerly breeze when he reaches between us and presses his hand to my jean-covered cock.
“Fuck,” I say with a grunt against his lips, my hips shuddering up, chasing his touch while I wish for our clothes to magically disappear.
A self-satisfied smirk dances across his lips as his gaze searches mine. And fuck if I don’t hold my breath when he pops open my top button before he tugs down the zipper. I follow his dropped gaze and see the swollen head of my dick peeking out from the waistband of my boxer briefs.
And when he swipes a finger over the drizzle of precum, I can’t take any more. I clasp the back of his neck and tug his mouth back to mine, needing to kiss the shit out of him.
It’s hot and frenzied and messy in the best way—lips swollen, hands pulling closer, hearts racing like we’re figuring out just how far this could go if we don’t stop.
But we do stop. Eventually.