Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Milo
The kitchen smelled exactly how I'd planned it, cinnamon and brown butter, warmth and comfort wrapped into scent.
I stood at the stove, monitoring three pans with the kind of focus most people reserved for complex equations, but this was my equation.
Heat plus time plus care equals something that might make Callie smile.
I heard her footsteps on the stairs before her scent hit me.
Sweet and spicy, but mellower now, relaxed.
The meeting with Dr. Yates yesterday had been good for her, even if she had disappeared afterward.
It was a lot to process, and none of us wanted to deny her any of the time she needed to do just that.
Callie's stomach growled loud enough that I turned with a grin already forming. "Hungry?" I couldn't help the way my smile went wide, the way it always did around her. "Good. I've been planning this all week."
And I had. Every detail. Real plates instead of paper. Napkins folded into shapes that were supposed to be swans but looked more like origami gone wrong. I wanted this to be special, to show her that she deserved effort, attention, care that wasn't driven by biology.
"You planned a breakfast date?" She slid onto a bar stool, and I tried not to let my hands shake as I plated the French toast I'd practiced three times this week.
I also tried not to let my gaze linger on her body, tried not to notice how she wasn't wearing a bra under her t-shirt and how she was in either very short shorts or just panties.
"Technically brunch, since it's past noon." My scent spiked nervous despite my best efforts. After our last cooking attempt together, I'd decided some things were better left to professionals. "And after our last cooking attempt..."
"You mean when I nearly burned down your kitchen trying to boil water?"
I wanted to laugh and reassure her at the same time. "You didn't nearly burn it down. Just... lightly scorched it. And created a new form of charcoal that science hasn't classified yet."
The French toast came out perfect. After adding caramelized bananas, sea salt for contrast, and handmade whipped cream, because store-bought felt like cheating, I set it in front of her with more ceremony than it probably deserved, but I always wanted Callie to feel special.
"This is too pretty to eat," she said, though she was already reaching for her fork.
"Nothing's too pretty to eat." I leaned against the counter, watching her face instead of the food. This was the real meal for me, seeing her enjoy something I made. "Food's meant to be enjoyed, not just admired."
The sound she made when she took the first bite went straight through me, settling somewhere low and warm. My Alpha instincts purred with satisfaction, the ancient drive to provide and protect singing in my blood.
"Fuck, Milo. This is..."
"The least sexy thing you could be eating right now?" I grinned, feeling heat creep up my neck. Pride and want mixed together until I couldn't separate them. "I wanted to just cook for you. No pressure to learn, no risk of injury. Just... feeding you."
The words came out more honest than I'd planned. This wasn't about teaching or showing off. It was about the simple, profound satisfaction of nourishing someone I loved.
She kicked the stool next to her. "Sit. Eat with me."
I grabbed my plate and settled beside her, hyperaware of every point of contact. Our knees touched under the counter and it felt more intimate than it should have, my body remembering everything we'd shared in the nest while simultaneously craving more.
"Tell me about the restaurant," she said between bites. "Your parents' place."
My chest loosened at the question, the way it always did when I talked about home. I described Abuela's tiny kitchen, the way she'd swat my hands if I tried to measure instead of feel, the Sunday prep sessions with my whole loud, loving family talking over each other.
"You miss it," she observed.
"Every day." I turned to face her more fully, letting my thigh press against hers, grounding myself in her presence. "But this... having a pack, having you... it's worth it."
"You can have both, you know. We're not replacing your family."
"I know." I found her hand on the counter, lacing our fingers together with the same careful precision I used for delicate sauces. "They want to meet you, you know? My mom's been texting almost every day asking when I'm bringing you home."
I felt her tense slightly, anxiety spiking through her scent. But underneath it was something warmer. Want, maybe. Hope.
"What would you tell them about us?" she asked. "About what we are?"
I took a moment, thumb tracing circles on her palm while I chose my words.
This mattered. She mattered. "The truth.
That you walked into our lives smelling like everything we never knew we needed.
That you're teaching us to be better Alphas by respecting your independence.
That I wake up every morning and choose you, heat or no heat, bond or no bond. "
My voice went rough on the last words. I meant every syllable.
"Milo..."
"I know we're not there yet." I rushed to clarify, not wanting to pressure her. "The biting, the formal bonds. But Callie, I need you to know... for me, this is already it. You're already it."
My scent intensified without my permission, honey sweetness mixing with woodsmoke, broadcasting everything I felt. No hiding from her, not anymore.
"Show me," she said, voice low. "Here. Now."
"Show you?" I asked, needing to confirm what she was trying to say even though my pupils had dilated so fast I felt dizzy. "Callie, we don't have to—"
"I know we don't have to. That's why I want to." She stood, rotated my chair so I was facing her and moved between my spread knees, hands braced on my thighs, and I thought my heart might actually stop. "No heat driving us. No audience. Just us choosing this."
I pulled her closer, hands spanning her waist, and when I kissed her it tasted like the future. Slow, intentional, savoring every second. This wasn't heat-driven desperation. This was choice, pure and simple.
"Upstairs?" I murmured against her mouth, giving her an out.
"Here," she said, and I nearly came undone right there. "Your kitchen, your domain. Want you here." Her omega was coming to the forefront and I loved it.
I stood, lifted her at the same time before sitting her on the counter, marveling at how perfectly she fit in my arms, in my space, in my life.
The marble would be cold against her skin but I'd warm her, always warm her.
My hands slid under her shirt, calloused from years of knife work and hot pans, rough against her softness.
"You're sure?" I pressed my forehead to hers, trying to hold onto control by my fingernails.
"Milo." She pulled back, meeting my eyes dead-on. "I want you to bite me."
The world stopped. Completely stopped. "Callie, we talked about this—"
"During heat. When I couldn't consent. I can now.
" She tilted her head, exposing her neck, that unmarked gland that I'd fantasized about claiming since the convention.
"We're not even making out. There's nothing else driving this and I'm choosing you.
Clear-headed, fully conscious, completely certain.
Milo Gabriel Moreno, would you please bite me? "
My lungs forgot how to work. "The others—"
"Will have their own moments when they're ready.
This is ours, if you want it to be." She tangled her fingers in my hair, pulling me closer, and I was lost. "I want your mark, Milo.
Want everyone to know I chose you. That you chose me back.
We can wait if you want, there's no pressure from me.
But I want you to know that I choose you too. "
I made a sound I'd probably be embarrassed about later, desperate and wanting and completely undone. "You can't take it back. Once I bite you, you're mine. Part of me forever."
"Good," she said simply. "That's the point."
Whatever control I'd been clinging to shattered. My mouth found her neck, kissing and nipping while my hands worked our clothes off with more efficiency than finesse. The counter height was perfect, like I'd designed my kitchen for exactly this moment.
"Been thinking about this," I admitted against her throat, past the point of playing it cool. "Every day since the convention. Wanting to mark you, claim you properly."
"Then do it," she challenged, and I sucked a bruise just below where my bite would go, marking the territory first.
The marble countertop was cold against Callie's bare skin, but I'd warm her.
Always warm her. My hands slid under her shirt, calloused fingers rough against her softness as I lifted it over her head.
The morning light streaming through the kitchen windows caught her curves, painting her in gold and making my mouth water.
"Fuck, you're beautiful," I murmured, pressing kisses along her collarbone while my hands explored the softness of her waist, the flare of her hips.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and brown butter, but underneath that was her, spun sugar and chili pepper, with that vanilla note that meant she was already wet for me.
Callie arched into my touch, her nails digging into my shoulders as I kissed my way down her chest. "Milo, please—"
"Patience," I whispered against her skin, my voice thick with want.
Her breath hitched as I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her tiny shorts, sliding them down her thighs with agonizing slowness.
The scent of her arousal hit me like a punch to the gut, sweet and spicy and completely intoxicating.
My cock strained against my jeans, but I ignored it, focused entirely on her.