13. Soren
Soren
“Every single one.” His voice breaks. His hips give a tiny, involuntary thrust, his knot pulsing.
His body can’t fully stop, even as his mouth tries to change everything.
“I carved them. Left them on the bench by the oak tree and in the library stacks and I...” Another pulse, another micro-thrust that makes us both gasp.
“I’ve been here for months, Soren. I never stopped. I just moved from wood to this.”
I just stare at him. It’s not really shock. Honestly, some part of me has known since the linseed oil.
“All of them? I grab his wrist.
“All of them.”
I make a sound I couldn’t name if you paid me.
It’s half a laugh, half a sob, mostly just the noise you make when you find out the love of your life has been leaving you hand-carved songbirds for almost a year and also fucking you into your own mattress on the regular.
There really isn’t a word for that. Someone should probably invent one.
“Stumble.” I’m crying and laughing, and his knot is swelling, and my body is clenching around him. “You left her on the bench.”
“The robin.” His thumb traces my cheekbone, smearing tears. “You picked her up and held her against the light and smiled, and I just…You looked so beautiful and happy. “
“The bench.” I grab his hip. “You fixed the slat. The splitting one.”
“You kept running your fingers over the rough part.” He swallows. “I couldn’t let you get hurt.”
“ The robin with the crooked wing. Why was the wing crooked?”
His laugh is broken and gorgeous. “I sneezed while I was carving her. Took a chunk out of the right wing and couldn’t fix it without starting over.”
“I carried her in my pocket for three weeks.” Now I’m just sobbing, gasping, ugly-crying, and his knot is swelling bigger, locking us together.
His arms come around me and pull me in tight while I fall apart, like, actually fall apart.
“Three weeks, Wren. Because she looked like she needed protecting.”
“I know.” His voice cracks open. “I saw you take her out in the library. You held her up to the window like she was real.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” It comes out muffled against his chest.
“Because.” His mouth is on my neck, on the bite, and his lips move against the bruised skin. “Because you loved the mystery. The story of it. And I was scared that the real version, just me, just some guy with a knife and too much sawdust, wouldn’t be...”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
“...enough.”
I twist around more so I can actually see his face. His jaw is tight, eyes wet. He looks like he’s waiting for a verdict.
“You idiot.” My voice is all tears and snot and way too much love. “You absolute idiot. You carved me seven birds and fixed my bench and you think you’re not enough?”
I hold his gaze. Don’t let him look away.
“Next time you’re scared, you tell me. You don’t hide behind wood and silence. You use your voice. Deal?”
His arm tightens around me.
“Deal,” he whispers.
I reach out and grab his hip, pulling him closer. His cock shifts inside me and we both groan, and then I just start laughing because, seriously, we just had the most important conversation of our lives while he’s literally locked inside me and neither of us even thought to stop.
“Move,” I say.
“Soren...”
“Move. I want all of it. The birds and the bench and you. Fuck your name into me too, Wren.”
He moves.
Slower this time. Deep, grinding rolls that light up every nerve I have. His arm banded across my back, holding me against him, and his mouth on the bite mark, not biting, pressing, murmuring things I have to strain to hear.
“Mine,” against my skin. “I’m sorry.” A thrust that makes me whimper. “I’ve always been right here.”
“I know,” I gasp. And I do. The fairy tale wasn’t out there waiting to be found. It was in a campus maintenance workshop, sanding my bench at dawn.
I’m even wetter now than I was before he confessed, which is honestly ridiculous, but apparently my body is really into being told the truth while I’m literally impaled. Good to know, I guess. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.
His knot is fully locked now, stretching me wide, and every time he grinds forward it presses against that spot, and my muscles clench in these tight, rhythmic pulses I can’t control, each one dragging against the thick swell of him.
My hand finds his where it’s splayed on my stomach, and I lace our fingers together.
His grip goes so tight I feel every callus.
Carving calluses. Whittling calluses. The hands that made my birds.
It builds like warmth filling me from the inside out.
Not crashing. Rising. His knot grinds against that spot on every slow roll, and my body starts clenching in waves, each one squeezing down around him, and when it finally crests I press my face into the pillow and let it take me.
Long, shuddering, my hole gripping his knot in pulse after pulse, my cock twitching hard against the ruined sheets.
Heat floods my belly, my thighs. Every aftershock pulls another clench, and I feel everything: the oversensitive drag of him too swollen to move, the slick mess between us, the wet heat of his cum pulsing into me in thick, steady throbs I swear I can feel in my chest.
He follows me over. His teeth find my shoulder, his breath ragged, his arm so tight I can barely breathe, and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except that he’s here and he’s real.
After, we just lie there in the mess. Sweat, tears, slick everywhere, the sheets are ruined, his cum still warm inside me where the knot keeps it in, and the whole nest looks like a disaster zone. His thumb draws slow, lazy circles on my stomach. I can feel his heartbeat pounding against my back.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Is it the confession-during-sex thing or the knotting thing?”
A pause. Something almost like a laugh against my hair. “Both.”
“Are you okay?”
His forehead drops to his shoulder. “I don’t know. Are you?”
I think about it. Actually think, not the polished I’m fine I’ve been handing everyone for weeks.
Milo got hurt before he found Callum. Benji spent years building walls before Knox showed up and loved him past them.
But Wren was here the whole time, loving me right from the start, too quiet and too scared to sign his name.
Maybe I got the right one first and was too busy being terrified to see it.
“I’m overwhelmed,” I say honestly. “And kind of mad at you. And kind of in love with you so hard I can’t breathe.”
His arm tightens. His nose presses behind my ear.
“Those can all be true at the same time,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.” I pull his hand up to my mouth and kiss his knuckles. Sawdust and salt. “Yeah, they can.”
Overhead, the fan clicks. My flock watches from the windowsill, seven tiny wooden witnesses. His knot pulses warm and heavy inside me, and I close my eyes.
He carved me birds because he couldn’t find the words.
I wrote poems about him because I couldn’t find the man.