Chapter 2
Callum
My back aches. Some probie set the bench press too high yesterday, and my pride was too stupid to back down.
Now I'm paying for it. I toss the half-eaten protein bar Marco left on the engine bay counter and wipe down the stainless steel.
It's a habit. If I don't do it, nobody does.
I check the clock. Two hours left on a twenty-four-hour shift that feels like it's been dragging on for a week.
We haven't had a call since a minor kitchen fire on Broad Street this afternoon, and the quiet is making everyone restless. Me included.
"Hayes, get in here. You gotta see this profile," Marco yells from the break room.
Jen laughs, and I wander in because it's not like I've got anything better to do.
Marco has KnotMe open on his phone, angled so Jen and Torres can see.
He's swiping through profiles like it's a spectator sport.
I grab a mug and pour some coffee from the pot.
It's burnt. It's always burnt. I drop into the chair at the end of the table, rolling my stiff shoulders.
"What about you, Hayes?" Marco turns the phone toward me. "You still got the app from when we made you download it?"
"It's on my phone somewhere," I mutter, taking a sip of the motor oil coffee.
"Somewhere," Jen repeats with a smirk. "You never even opened it, did you?"
"I opened it. Wasn't really my thing."
"His thing is going home and talking to his plants," Marco teases.
"My plants are better company than you."
"Your plants can't sit on your—"
"Finish that sentence and I'm putting you on latrine duty for a month."
Marco holds his hands up in surrender, grinning. Jen snorts into her coffee. I let out a low chuckle. It's funny mostly because it's true. I go home to my plants. I water them, make sure they get enough light, eat whatever, and go to bed. It works. It's simple.
Torres gets into a debate with Marco about some omega's bio, and I tune them out.
I finish my coffee, rinse the mug out in the sink, and head for the bunks.
I pass the supply closet on the way and notice someone left the mop bucket out again.
I dump the dirty water, rinse it, and rack it. It takes thirty seconds.
The bunk room is empty and dim, lit only by the amber glow of the emergency exit sign.
I sit on the edge of my bunk and yank my boots off, groaning as the pressure releases.
I grab my phone out of my locker, checking to see if Ava texted.
She's been on my ass about dinner this Friday like it's a royal wedding and not just her, me, and her friends eating her dry chicken.
Nothing from Ava. Just a weather alert and an email from the union. And the KnotMe icon, sitting right there on my home screen.
I don't even know why I open it. Boredom, probably. I downloaded it on a dare from Marco weeks ago, swiped through a few profiles, and closed it. Nothing caught my eye.
I start scrolling now. Gym selfie. Another gym selfie. A cute omega with a bio that's way too long for me to read right now.
Then my thumb freezes.
The photo is a selfie taken in the warm glow of a bedside lamp.
The omega in the picture has a soft, oversized sweater half-pulled over his head, the fabric bunched up around his shoulders.
It exposes a strip of bare stomach and the waistband of his boxers.
His stomach is soft—not flat, just warm and huggable.
He has dark curls falling into his face. And his skin, a warm medium-brown...
Wait. Something about him is familiar…
My gut goes completely still. I know the exact shade of that skin.
I've stared at it across dinner tables and in my sister's kitchen.
My eyes drag up to his shoulder where the sweater has slipped off, and there it is.
A small brown birthmark, right below his collarbone.
I've only seen it once. Last summer, at a cookout.
He reached up to hang some lights, his tank top slipped, and I stood there holding a pair of barbecue tongs like a fucking idiot for six full seconds, staring at that exact spot, imagining exactly where my teeth would go.
It's Milo.
Milo Reyes. Ava's best friend. The sweet omega who shows up at every dinner with homemade cookies and apologizes when someone else bumps into him. The one I've been deliberately forcing myself not to think about since the day she introduced us.
And he's on KnotMe. In his underwear. With his soft belly out and a bio that—
I read the bio.
Heat coils low and heavy in my gut. I have to shift on the mattress because my cock is suddenly, aggressively hard. Milo—sweet, shy, vanilla Milo—wrote that. Or at least approved it.
I press the heel of my palm against my crotch through my uniform pants. It doesn't help. It just makes the image sharper. Milo's soft belly under my hand. Milo whimpering. That birthmark under my mouth.
Fuck.
I close my eyes. I am lying in a firehouse bunk, surrounded by my crew, and I am rock-hard over my little sister's best friend's hookup profile.
It's not just that he's attractive. I see attractive people all the time.
It's the softness he tries so hard to hide.
The way his whole face changes when he laughs, nose crinkling, eyes squeezing shut.
The first time I saw it—that day I first met him, when he handed me a warm cookie in Ava's kitchen with flour on his cheek—every thought I had just stalled.
I immediately filed him under "Off Limits" and slapped a padlock on it.
I look at the photo again. I can't look away.
It's not a practiced thirst trap. It's vulnerable.
He's nervous. He's putting himself out there for some alpha who won't know what the fuck they're looking at.
Some random asshole who'll see a soft body, get him into bed, and not even think to ask if he's satisfied.
The thought of someone careless getting their hands on him makes my chest tight.
My alpha instinct flares, possessive and loud.
I close the app and shove the phone under my pillow like I'm a teenager hiding a dirty magazine. I'm not doing this. He's Ava's friend. He's twenty-one. He thinks I'm just his best friend's big, boring older brother.
I stare at the water-stained ceiling. I need to think about something else. Grocery list. Repotting the ferns. The weird noise my truck is making.
But it's not working. If I don't swipe right, someone else will.
Someone who won't know that he stress-bakes when he's anxious, that a multi-layer cake on a Tuesday means a full-blown crisis.
Someone who won't realize he's a pleaser who will focus entirely on them and forget to ask for what he actually needs.
The idea of not being the one to protect him from that feels wrong. Just fundamentally wrong.
I pull the phone back out. Open KnotMe. The profile is still there. My thumb hovers over the screen.
I swipe right.
The screen explodes with obnoxious neon pink confetti. It's a Match!
I stare at it. He swiped right on me too. My profile doesn't even have a bio. It's just a cropped picture Ava took of me at a barbecue, laughing, with my truck in the background. And Milo saw it and swiped right.
My heart is hammering against my ribs like I just pulled someone out of a burning building.
The chat window opens. A blank white space with a blinking cursor.
I type hey and delete it. I type you're beautiful and delete it because that's way too much for a supposedly anonymous alpha. I need to keep it simple. Safe.
Your profile pic made me smile. How's your night going?
I hit send before I can overthink it. I set the phone on my chest and try to breathe normally.
The reply comes three minutes later.
honestly? kinda boring now. my friends just left and i'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling so. thrilling stuff
He's in bed. I picture it instantly—Milo curled up in a nest of blankets, dark curls smashed against the pillow, wearing that oversized sweater.
Sounds like you need better entertainment. What were you doing before the ceiling got your attention?
stress-baking banana bread and then letting my friends bully me into making this profile lol. the banana bread was the better decision
There he is. Self-deprecating, sweet, deflecting.
I don't know, the profile seems like a pretty good decision from where I'm sitting. And I'm a sucker for banana bread.
We go back and forth a few more times. I keep it generic so he doesn't figure out it's me. He's funny and warm, and every message makes my chest ache a little more. Then he sends one that stops me cold.
sorry if this is weird but you're like. actually talking to me? most guys on here just open with a pic of their knot and call it conversation
I frown at the screen. Fucking idiots.
That's not weird at all. And those guys are idiots. You deserve someone who asks how your day was before they ask for anything else.
I stare at the words. Too much? Probably.
His reply takes a full minute.
...that might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me on this app
lol. goodnight, anonymous alpha. thanks for not sending me a dick pic ??
Goodnight, sweetheart. Get some sleep.
I blink at the word sweetheart. It just slipped out. Because he is. The sweetest person I've ever met, and he doesn't even know it.
My phone buzzes in my hand, Ava's contact photo lighting up the screen. My stomach drops.
"Hey," I answer, keeping my voice steady.
"Hey! Okay, Friday. Final headcount. You're bringing garlic bread, right? The real stuff, not store-bought."
"When have I ever brought store-bought?"
"Just checking. I'm trying a new chicken recipe and I need at least one thing on the table that's edible. Milo's coming, obviously, and Jude might swing by with Rhys—"
"Milo's coming?" I ask. Too fast. I know it's too fast because there's a beat of silence on the other end.
"...Yeah? He always comes. Why?"
"No reason. Just making sure I have the headcount." Smooth. Real smooth.
"Uh-huh." She sounds way too amused. "You always ask about Milo."
"I ask about everyone."
"You ask about Milo first. Every time. It's kind of adorable."
"Goodnight, Ava."
"It IS adorable. My big brother has a soft spot for my—"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Love you! Garlic bread! Friday!"
I drop the phone on my chest and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. Ava notices everything.
I've been asking about Milo first for years, just like I've memorized every detail about the omega I'm now secretly messaging on a hookup app because I'm too much of a coward to just claim what I want.
Friday. Ava's kitchen. Garlic bread and dry chicken. And Milo, sitting across the table, smelling like cinnamon and brown sugar.
I press the phone flat against my sternum. The bunk room is dead quiet. I stare at the ceiling, knowing I'm not getting any sleep tonight.