Chapter 12
Milo
Something came out of the oven twenty minutes ago.
Cinnamon rolls, this time. Callum's shift ended an hour ago, and he's still not home.
Which is fine. Normal. Sometimes the handoff takes a while.
But his last text was six hours ago: Rough one.
Talk later. That "rough one" is exactly why I'm sitting on the couch, staring at my phone instead of studying for my psych midterm.
It's been three days since he told Ava. The outside world is settling—she texted him this morning, then sent me a meme with a we should talk soon and a heart.
But inside this apartment, there's just the hum of the fridge, the warm smell of cinnamon, and Gerald the fern on the dresser.
Gerald is doing great. He doesn't give a fuck about my anxiety.
I cook when I'm worried. I feed things I can't fix.
So now there's a tray of cinnamon rolls cooling on the counter, a soup simmering on the back burner, and I've reorganized the spice rack twice.
Callum's spice rack. In Callum's kitchen.
Where I now have a key, a drawer, a nest, and apparently very strong opinions about the alphabetical placement of cumin.
The lock clicks.
I'm on my feet before the door even opens.
It's embarrassing, but it's pure instinct—my omega registering mate, home, check before my brain even catches up.
The door swings in. Callum is standing there, and my eyes immediately scan him for damage.
No visible injuries. No limp. No bandages. But something is wrong.
He looks completely hollowed out. His broad shoulders are slumped forward, his jacket half-off one arm like he started taking it off and just forgot how.
There's a dark smudge of soot behind his ear.
He didn't wash it off at the station, which means he skipped the shower, which means he just wanted to get home.
When his eyes finally meet mine, they look empty.
"Hey," he says. His voice is flat. Callum's voice is always steady, even when he's dead on his feet. But this is just... vacant.
"Hey." I cross the room. He's hanging up his jacket on pure muscle memory, and I catch the faint tremor in his hands when he reaches for the hook. You wouldn't notice it unless you were looking. I'm always looking.
"Smells good in here," he mutters, already moving toward the kitchen. He's redirecting. Picking an action so he doesn't have to stop and feel whatever is eating him alive. "You didn't have to cook—"
"Callum."
He freezes. I step into his path and press my palm flat against his chest. His heart is hammering against my hand, way too fast for a guy who just walked through his front door.
He looks down at my hand, then up at my face.
The I'm fine is fighting to get past his teeth.
He wants to box it up. Hide it where I won't find it.
I know that trick. I've been doing it since I was twelve, showing up with cookies when my parents were fighting, like sugar could fix it.
It's weird seeing someone else try to pull my own bullshit on me.
"Come shower," I tell him. "Let me."
Two words. I've learned to give orders over the last two weeks—get in here, don't move, let me—but this isn't about sex. It's about the soot on his neck and the shake in his fingers.
He opens his mouth to argue, then snaps it shut. The fight just drains right out of him. His shoulders drop. His jaw unclenches. He nods once, and I take his hand and lead him down the hall.
The bathroom is small. My toothbrush is sitting in the cup next to his.
He bought it without telling me, and I had to sit on the toilet lid for three minutes the other day because seeing our toothbrushes touching was apparently my emotional breaking point.
I turn the water on hot, the way he likes it, and start with his boots.
I crouch down, pulling the laces loose and easing the heavy boots off his feet.
Thick, damp work socks come next. I stand back up and reach for the hem of his department T-shirt.
It's stiff with dried sweat and smells like chemical smoke, not the cozy fireplace kind.
I pull it over his head. He lifts his arms to help, his bare chest familiar and solid, but looking so heavy it makes my throat tight.
Belt. Pants. Boxer briefs. He steps out of them and just stands there naked, staring at the wall. This isn't the alpha who pinned me to the kitchen counter yesterday. He's just a guy carrying something too heavy. I guide him under the spray with a hand on his lower back.
The water hits the tile, loud and hot. I start with his shoulders, digging my thumbs into the tight, knotted muscle where his neck meets his traps.
He's tense under my palms. I work my way down his back, tracing the freckles under the water.
I reach for the shampoo—his shampoo, the one that's basically my scent now—and work it into his hair.
I scrub his scalp, and he lets out a low, shaky exhale.
His head drops forward. His chin hits his chest, and he just leans into my hands.
Watching this massive guy, who literally fights fires for a living, surrender like this. .. fuck.
"It was a bad one," he says, his voice muffled by the rushing water. "Kid's bedroom had the same layout as Ava's old room. Same window, same closet on the left. Stupid thing to notice."
He doesn't say anything else. I don't ask. I just step forward, pressing my chest to his back, and rest my forehead between his shoulder blades. I hold him from behind, letting the steam fill the silence.
I'm washing his calves, soaping up his ankles, and then my hands are trailing back up his thighs.
The temperature shifts. It's not a conscious decision, just my body knowing exactly what he needs before my brain catches up.
I settle on my knees on the wet shower floor and look up at him.
He stares down at me, looking surprised, tender, and entirely convinced he doesn't deserve this.
"Just let me," I say, and I take him in my mouth.
He's not fully hard yet—he's too exhausted—but he thickens against my tongue as I work him.
Slow. Unhurried. My hands grip his hips while the hot water beats down on my back.
This isn't the frantic, desperate shit we've been doing for the last two weeks.
This is me, on my knees, choosing to take care of him.
His hands tangle in my wet curls. He doesn't push or guide; he just holds on.
The sounds he makes are pure relief. A guy finally making it back to shore.
My own cock is throbbing against my thighs, slick building up and washing away in the water, my omega purring at the taste of him. But I don't touch myself.
Callum's hand slips under my chin, pulling me up. When I'm back on my feet, the look in his eyes is fierce. The exhaustion is still there, but the alpha is awake. He can't just take. He lives to give.
"I need to—" he starts, but he doesn't even finish the sentence. His hands grip my hips, spinning me around and backing me into the tile. The cold ceramic shocks my spine. Then his mouth is on my neck, dragging over my collarbone, and he's sinking to his knees.
He lifts my leg, hooking it over his broad shoulder. He's done this before, but seeing him—this huge, exhausted man kneeling on the wet floor with my thigh over his shoulder—makes my breath catch.
His mouth closes over my cock. Hot, purposeful, completely focused.
I grip his wet hair with one hand and brace against the wall with the other.
Then his mouth drops lower. His hands spread my ass cheeks apart, thumbs pressing deep into my thighs to open me up for him.
His tongue drags a thick, wet stripe right over my hole.
I gasp, my rim fluttering involuntarily against the intrusion.
The sound I make bounces off the shower walls, obscene and loud even over the rushing water.
He laps at me, tasting the slick my body is pouring out for him, mixing with the soap and water.
He groans against my skin, the vibration shooting straight up my spine.
He alternates. Lips sucking at my cock, then his tongue pressing deep into my ass, his hands spreading me wider so he can get exactly what he wants.
Complete sensory overload. My leg shakes against his shoulder, and the tears start building behind my eyes.
It's just too much. Too good. When they finally spill over, mixing with the shower spray on my cheeks, I don't even try to hide it.
Callum glances up, his mouth still wrapped around me.
He sees me crying, and instead of stopping, he presses his thumb right against my prostate and murmurs against my skin, "That's it, baby. Let go. So fucking perfect like this."
He slides two fingers into my slick, open hole while his lips seal tight around the head of my cock.
The two sensations crash into each other.
I hit the wall. My leg clamps around his neck, every muscle in my body locking up, and I come so hard my vision whites out.
I pulse thick and hot into his mouth, feeling him swallow every drop.
"I—fuck—I'm—Cal—" I sob out, my thighs shaking so violently he has to grip my hips tight enough to leave bruises just to keep me upright. He doesn't pull away until I'm twitching, my fingers weakly pulling at his hair.
He stands up, pressing his chest flush against mine, pinning me gently to the tile.
His hard cock rubs against my stomach as he buries his face in my neck, breathing my scent in deep.
He wraps his hand around his own dick. I hold onto his broad shoulders while he strokes himself, fast and desperate, his hot breath harsh against my throat.
He comes with a low, wrecked groan, his hips jerking forward, hot spurts hitting my stomach and washing away in the spray.
His massive body sags against mine. All of his weight, just dropping.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him up.
His hand gentles instantly, sliding from his cock to my hip, then up my spine, resting warm and flat against my back. He presses a soft kiss to my temple, then my throat, his lips lingering right over the claiming mark he left on me. "Got you," he murmurs into my skin. "So good. So good for me."
I don't move. My feet are planted, my arms locked around him. He's got sixty pounds on me, but I'm holding him. It's new. I told him to let me, and he actually did. He handed over all that weight in the steam and the water, and I'm holding it.
We're in the nest. Clean, dry, wrapped in his old shirts and blankets.
His arm is heavy around my waist, my head resting on his chest. I'm mindlessly tracing the faded scars and freckles on his skin because I can't seem to keep my hands off him.
The apartment is dead quiet, just the hum of the fridge, our breathing, and the faint patter of rain hitting the bedroom window.
He's quiet for a long time. I don't push. I just trace his skin and listen to his steady heartbeat, waiting. He'll get there when he gets there. I'm not going anywhere.
"Sometimes I come home and I don't know where to put it," he whispers.
His voice is scraped raw, vibrating through his chest and into my cheek.
"The bad ones. The calls where you do everything right and it's still not enough.
I used to shower at the station, drive home, put it in a box, and go to sleep.
Get up and do it again. It was fine because there was nobody here to notice if I wasn't."
I press closer to him. His arm tightens around me.
"But you're here now," he says. "And I don't... I don't know how to do this part. The part where someone sees me after."
I shift, placing my palm flat against my own sternum. "Right here," I tell him. "Put it right here."
He pulls me against him so hard it almost hurts, burying his face in my curls. The breath he lets out shakes. It's not a breakdown. It's just the sound of a guy who's been carrying the world alone for way too long, finally feeling someone else take half the weight.
I hold him. He lets me. The nest holds us both.
Later, his breathing slows. His massive body goes heavy and boneless in the bed, his grip on me loosening into something comfortable.
In the dim light, a faint smudge of soot right behind his ear that the shower missed.
I reach up, rubbing it away gently with my thumb.
His face looks younger in his sleep, the guard completely stripped away.
Underneath the uniform and the alpha instincts, he's just a guy who was scared today, who came home to someone waiting for him.
My hand settles flat over his heart. Not checking it. Just resting.
He didn't ask me to stay. I don't think he even knows how to ask for things like that. But my hand is on his chest, the soot is gone, and I'm still here.