Page 7 of Bears & Bakeries (Sweet & Stocky #2)

SEVEN

Sweet & Sticky

T he wind rustled Locky’s hair, cool and pleasant below the late fall sky. Hazelnut-colored roofs peeked through amber leaves. Down the steep street was a picturesque view of Alcatraz, like a private resort in the twinkling bay. Which, in its own way, it kind of had been.

Locky hadn’t ridden a cable car in years, although right now, alongside the sunshine and the high ring of the bell, he couldn’t remember why. Maybe it was because he usually cycled everywhere, hitting the sloping streets with a clench of well-worked booty and that amazing feeling of struggle.

Benedict relaxed beside him on the outside seat of the carriage, with nothing between them and the rushing street below. Locky had never seen him without a suit before, although he still looked impossibly crisp—wearing jeans that gripped his tree-trunk thighs and a white t-shirt so simple it probably cost a fortune. He’d paired it with a Berkley letterman jacket, royal blue and sunburst yellow, alongside white Wayfarer sunglasses that matched his unmarked sneakers.

It shouldn’t have looked as good as it did. There were too many pieces of 80s teen movies and 90s Jerry Seinfeld. But the way he was just sitting there, with a casual ankle across one knee and an arm draped over the wooden seat slats, he looked like every boy that Locky had been too afraid to talk to in high school.

Like he didn’t have a single problem in the world.

But Locky knew that he did. Because Benedict had shared that with him—something nerve-racking and personal and so deep that the man had buried it down to his core, until he’d picked the strangest moment and the strangest partner to reveal it to.

Benedict was terrified of his clients going bankrupt, and he went to extreme lengths to avoid knowing what happened to them after they’d opened their stores.

Locky had thought about that these last few days—how lonely Benedict must have been. Playing the professional part in front of each new client. Hoping that this time, this time , it might turn out different. Only to have the car crash happen again and again.

Locky was lucky. At least he had a support network for some of his issues. But Benedict? He’d been alone through all of this—fear and panic and confusion.

Locky had also considered the irony of that. A few days ago, Locky had been trying to get away from Benedict. And now, their roles were reversed. Because that’s what Benedict would do to him, wasn’t it? If Locky actually followed through and opened his store, he’d become just like all the clients before him?

They hadn’t talked about it explicitly, but the truth still hung between them. Even if Benedict wanted to help Locky, in just a few short weeks he might cut him off, blocking his number and tossing him aside.

And for reasons that Locky couldn’t quite explain, that thought made him strangely sad.

Benedict raised a good-natured eyebrow—one that perfectly hid the storm behind the smile. “What are you looking at, stare bear?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wondering what your secret plan for the day is. Beyond menu development ?”

“I could tell you, Mr. Sorenson,” said Benedict, peering over his sunglasses like a judgmental librarian. “But that would ruin the surprise.”

Locky stifled a smile. Mr. Sorenson? Benedict hadn’t called him that since they’d first met—when Locky had specifically asked him not to. Usually, he hated Mr. Sorenson as much as he hated Havelock , with either making him sound like an old Scandinavian fisherman.

And yet, right now, with the gentle breeze and the soft sun, it didn’t sound so bad. Not with the sly little grin that Benedict was giving him.

Locky dropped his drugstore sunglasses so low they almost slid off his nose. “Maybe I don’t like surprises, Mr. Owens?”

“Oh, you’ll definitely like this one.”

* * *

Red paper lanterns draped over bustling streets. Footpaths pressed tight below the awnings of gift shops and jewelers, with towering vertical signs nestled between fire escapes and ornate metal balconies.

Locky spun through morning shoppers as he took it all in, relishing the hustle and the noise. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come to Chinatown—the last time he’d even had the chance. Not with his eight o’clock starts and weekends filled with even more work.

Sometimes he felt like he’d lived his entire life in the office, one day rolling into the next, month into month, year into year. But walking through the press of people here, at ten in the morning on a random Thursday, it felt surreal and almost wondrous. The earthy aroma of ginseng and medicinal teas rose up to meet him. Bright pops of color glowed from painted murals on red brick walls. The upturned corners of tiled roofs glinted with golden dragons.

Locky was so distracted by the magic of it all that he almost didn’t notice when Benedict took them on a sudden detour, leaving the lantern-filled street for a single block, only to rejoin it a few minutes later.

There was a brief silence as Benedict shot him a glance—his shoulders pinched, jaw tight, as if wondering whether Locky would say something.

Locky considered that for a moment, whether he should say something. Yes, he understood what Benedict was going through—there was clearly a former client that Benedict hadn’t wanted to walk past. And yes, Locky wanted to be there to talk when the moment was right.

But he also knew that sometimes you didn’t want to talk. Sometimes you just wanted to push through and let it pass without discussion. Because dwelling on it only made it more real.

Locky had already shown Benedict that they could talk about these things. But right now, with that look on Benedict’s face, Locky wanted to show him the opposite.

That they didn’t have to talk about it.

Instead of raising the detour, Locky pointing to a window filled with bronze burnished ducks, succulent and glinting. And there was something in seeing Benedict relax, in seeing the realization that he didn’t need to explain himself, that warmed Locky even more than the morning light.

* * *

“This is a test, isn’t it?” said Locky, standing in the shade of a decorative streetlamp. “Something to do with menu development?”

“ What?! Why would you say that?” said Benedict. His smile was both infuriating and adorable, making his cheeks go all chubby.

Locky had never been a fan of puzzles. But maybe he needed to learn? Because setting up a business was like a puzzle. With dozens of pieces that had to fit just right to make a full picture.

Locky took in the shops on the three street corners.

The first was an ancient-looking building selling fortune cookies, with a distant view of old ladies behind clanking machines. He’d heard about this place—that fortune cookies were invented right here in San Francisco, even if LA had views on that.

On the second corner was a compact bakery, barely big enough to fit five people but packed high with incredible treats. Buns were filled with lotus and pineapple, with red bean mooncakes and jeweled sesame balls. Locky’s mouth watered at the sight, and he wasn’t surprised to see a line stretching down the street. But what did surprise him was the way most customers seemed to be getting the same thing—egg tarts, with flaky pastry and golden yellow tops.

On the third corner was a tiny soup restaurant, dishing out steaming bowls of noodles and dumplings. As Locky peered closer, he noticed there wasn’t a permanent menu, just a well-used blackboard on the counter, listing a few options for the day.

Locky snorted as Benedict’s puzzle pieces came into view—the three options for his business plan.

He could open a store selling just one kind of thing, perfected over the years. Or a store that had a wide range of options, with a signature dish or two that people flocked for. Or maybe he could open a store of pure experimentation, making up the menu every single day.

Locky cleared his throat, fumbling for a sentence he couldn’t quite start, not without sounding like a stereotype of himself.

Benedict saved him. “In case you’re wondering—not saying you were—but the financially safest option would be the first one. It would involve fewer ingredients, a more consistent workflow, and much easier branding. Plus, you can still mix things up a little, like having a store that only sells cupcakes. They might all be the same thing, but you can still experiment with flavors.”

Locky gave a grateful exhale at not needing to ask the questions about money and security. Of having Benedict already know what his biggest fears would be. It was a strange kind of familiarity, as comforting as it was confronting.

And now it was Locky’s turn to sneak glances toward Benedict. Wondering if the man would judge him for taking the safe option. For not being bolder and taking bigger risks.

It was only a plan , after all. Locky could do what he liked, propose what he liked. Because it was never going to actually happen.

But Benedict didn’t call him out. Instead, he patted Locky on the shoulder as the crossing blinked green. “Hungry?”

Locky stared at him for a moment before nodding. The strong hand stayed there until they were safely on the other side of the street. Like he wasn’t worried that Locky’s body might go feral on him again.

And as they stepped into the cool shade of the fortune cookie store, smelling of baked sugar and rich vanilla, Locky cursed himself for not wearing sunscreen.

Because he could feel the heat glowing against his cheeks.

* * *

It was a day later and Benedict was flicking through the draft business plan, clean white paper resting against the black leather of the steering wheel.

The folio glowed in the overcast morning. The plan was barely started, just page after page of pro forma boxes, most without a single scribble. But they would soon be filled. He’d seen to that. Because he’d managed to convince Locky to trust him. That the dream was worth developing, even if he didn’t intend to follow through.

Benedict ran a well-manicured thumbnail over the empty sheets, thinking back to their moment in the fridge. He still couldn’t believe that he’d admitted all those things. Things he’d never told another soul.

Of course, Tris knew half the story. He’d never told her explicitly, but she knew enough of his former clients to piece it together.

But he’d told Locky all of it. Said the actual words out loud. After ten years and hundreds of clients and doing everything he could to keep those fears hidden, he’d really just admitted it all. And to Locky Sorenson, no less—someone who was just as messed up as him.

It was strange to realize that those confessions were out there now. Strange, but also kind of nice, even if Benedict didn’t know where this situation left him. Because he couldn’t avoid getting too close to Locky, like he would with a normal client—they were way past that. But he also didn’t know where their boundaries now lay.

Should he try to maintain some level of distance? Did he even need to? After all, Locky wasn’t like a regular client—he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to open his store. That meant there was no danger of his idea failing.

So... what was the risk in getting closer?

As Benedict stepped out of his car—golden leaves collecting on the polished roof—he did think, just for a moment, that it might be nice to not run away this time. To talk a little more about these feelings that he’d buried for so long. To let Locky unpack his own issues.

To just... be messed up together?

* * *

Benedict’s eyes bulged as he stared at Locky’s living room.

Over practically every surface were bits of notepaper torn into rough squares. There had to be hundreds of them, scattered over the coffee table and stuck to the curves of the couches and even covering the glass of the television. On every single one was the name of some dessert category, alongside a handful of messy notes like “keeps well” and “comforting” and “visually appealing.”

And standing in the middle of them all was Locky.

There was an irony to his appearance, because even though he was dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed, his face looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He was wearing a tight-fitting white t-shirt, chest hair cascading from the collar, alongside a pair of gray sweats that left nothing to the imagination.

Benedict did a double take at that, looking away before sneaking peeks at his thick-all-over client. Not that Locky noticed Benedict’s attention. Or that he’d let himself in through the unlocked door. Locky was too busy spinning on the spot and muttering to himself.

That spinning didn’t help. Because as much as Benedict tried not to stare, the sweats were gripping Locky’s butt even more than his dick, showing off ass cheeks that were big and bouncy and stuffed into the light cotton like two bulging bike helmets.

It wasn’t like Benedict hadn’t noticed Locky’s ass before—it was pretty hard to miss. But right now, it was like those cheeks had a gravitational pull on Benedict’s eyeballs, making him imagine how firm and furry they would be under his touch, with nothing but that thin layer of fabric hiding them from view.

Kai appeared from the hall, fully suited apart from his tie, which was threaded in loose strands around his unbuttoned collar. He approached Benedict for what appeared to be a greeting hug but turned into a throttle. “I should have left you on that damn pier,” Kai hissed, shaking Benedict back and forth by his lapels. “He’s been like this all night. You broke the wall on his imagination and now my sofa is covered with his dream splatters!”

“That sounds kinda hot?”

“Shut up! If you don’t fix him, I’ll get one of those cages you take dogs to the vet in!”

“You don’t own one already?”

“Mask, yes. Tail butt plug, also yes. Cage, not yet. But, so help me God, if I come back tonight and it still looks like this, I’ll go full pup master on his ass!”

Benedict didn’t have time to respond before Kai slammed the door, the noise finally catching Locky’s attention.

“Oh, thank God you’re here,” he said, dragging Benedict into the cyclone of paper. “It’s all gotten a bit out of hand. But I did what you asked.”

Benedict stumbled into a section of paper marked European Spiced Cookies , inadvertently kicking the speculaas onto the pepparkakor . “I didn’t have this in mind when I said come up with a few menu options .”

“Well, if I’m going to specialize in just one kind of treat, I’ve got to make an informed choice.”

“Has... anyone ever talked to you about ADHD hyperfocus?” Benedict said, delicate as he could. “You know, where someone goes from a scattered mess to strangely organized over one specific thing?”

Locky waved a dismissive hand. “You wanted options, I’ve delivered options!”

Benedict was going to say, I didn’t tell you to catalog the entire history of sugar meeting flour , but was met by an expression from Locky that was dangerously close to pride. And that, Benedict had to admit, was a big improvement over confusion and shame.

“Well, excellent,” said Benedict, trying to find a place to sit before giving up. The only available stool was occupied by Apricot, who eyed him with a mocking stretch. “I guess we should start whittling these down?” Benedict picked up the nearest piece of paper. “For example, I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t specialize in Asian Cakes and Pastries—ESPECIALLY EGG TARTS , all capital letters.”

Locky snatched the paper. “That was your fault for taking me to Chinatown. I’ve been thinking about the tarts for days.”

“It was yesterday, Locky. And you ate seven of them.”

As Benedict hung his suit jacket over the nearest lamp, he couldn’t help notice how Locky’s gaze darted away when Benedict turned back around—almost like Locky had been taking his own survey of Benedict’s curvy ass.

Locky froze for a moment, before he half-walked, half-sprinted out of the living room, not stopping until he was safety behind the kitchen counter. “Coffee?” he squeaked, his voice as high as the red-velvet blush that was spreading through his hairline.

* * *

Benedict stared at the counter full of ingredients. There were containers of flours and sugars and identical-looking white powders. Beside them was a tower of jars, full of viscous liquids that Benedict had never heard of before, like treacle and golden syrup. He didn’t know what they were. And right now, after six hours of whittling, he didn’t want to ask. Not when they were finally making progress.

“Right,” he said, sipping his sixth cup of coffee. “Down to the final duel?”

“Cupcakes versus pies,” said Locky with a sage nod. “Honestly, I never saw this coming. I thought cheesecakes would’ve made the top two.”

Benedict squinted at the big pieces of paper taped to the living room wall, listing pros and cons in Locky’s haphazard handwriting. “If you’ll recall, Mr. Sorenson, you decided there were too many other stores specializing in cheesecakes, that they universally relied on dairy, and even though they keep quite well, you derisively called them a bit too brunchy ?”

It hadn’t been an intentional decision to call Locky Mr. Sorenson when they were bantering, it had just popped out a few times and Locky hadn’t corrected him. Plus, there was something strangely relaxed about the title. Relaxed and, if Benedict was honest, ever so slightly bratty.

“Not derisively !” said Locky. “There’s just something more ten a.m. brunch about cheesecake than ten p.m. swing dancing.”

Benedict bit back a laugh. Because Kai was right—the dream wall had broken. A few days ago, Pizza My Mind was just someone else’s store. But now, Locky was already imagining what the evenings might look like in his store. Imagining that little stage playing swing music at ten p.m.

And the best part was, Locky probably didn’t even realize the daydreams were forming. And Benedict certainly wasn’t going to draw attention to it.

Instead, he clapped his hands together. “Well, cupcakes or pies? I guess you’ll have to do a bake off?”

“Correction,” said Locky, reaching behind a tall cupboard door. “ We will have to do a bake off.”

Locky returned holding a second apron, matching his own. He waved the neck loop invitingly and Benedict marveled, not for the first time, at just how different the man seemed when he was on this side of the bench. Because it wasn’t like Locky was pretending to be a different person here. It was more like he finally became himself. And there was something incredibly hot in seeing the playful, obsessively nerdy side of Locky. The man who’d write down a hundred different baked goods or get so focused on something that he’d wander around obliviously in bulgy sweats.

Benedict cocked an eyebrow. “Baking isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

“Come on. It will be fun. You can be my sous-chef.”

“Who’s Sue? Never met her before?”

“It means second in command, Mr. Owens. If you’re interested in working under me?”

“Sure! That sounds hot,” said Benedict instinctively, before realizing what he’d just said.

And who he’d just said it to.

It would have been so much better if Locky had laughed. Or if Benedict had laughed. Or if either of them had carried on without drawing attention to the moment. Because that would have meant it was just some casual rib, some throwaway joke between acquaintances.

Instead, both of them mumbled synchronized apologies, which only emphasized how much it wasn’t a joke.

It wasn’t news to Benedict that he found Locky hot. The man was handsome and awkward, and Benedict had already given plenty of nocturnal attention to the thought of the big bear fucking his brains out. Just like he knew the feeling was mutual. He’d seen Locky’s physical reactions to his touch enough times. And he’d literally caught Locky checking him out this morning.

But they’d never shared a mutual recognition of this fact before. And now, it was just like their conversation in the fridge—something had been revealed that neither of them could take back.

Not that Benedict would ever follow through on it! Locky had his abstinence, and for damn good reasons. It was all tied up in his sobriety, and Benedict would never do anything to challenge that. Just like Benedict had his own reasons for keeping his distance. He’d already gotten closer to Locky than any client before him. But that didn’t mean he’d toss every preservation instinct aside and try to fuck this guy.

Benedict gathered himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean... So, baking, huh ?”

“Yes, baking , yes!” said Locky, his fair complexion unable to conceal the heavy blush. He cleared his throat and made an odd little movement toward the counter, pressing his body flat against the marble. “Do you have any experience?”

“Tons. I’m an expert,” said Benedict, knowing that he shouldn’t make the joke, but still wanting to see just how far he could make that blush spread. “Oh, sorry. You mean with baking ? Not really. You’ll probably have to guide me pretty closely.”

To Benedict’s delight, the blush spread all the way down Locky’s neck. “Well... I... I promise I’ll be gentle with you.”

And it took all of Benedict’s willpower not to say I’d really rather you weren’t.

* * *

Benedict sifted the flour, making a snow-dusted halo around the glass bowl. He was awful at this, but Locky didn’t say anything, looking over with these little glances that made Benedict want to lean him against the cupboard and kiss his cute nose.

“You never actually told me how you got into baking?” said Benedict, the moment filled with soft jazz and the gentle purr of Apricot from the edge of the counter.

“I mean, it’s not exactly a fairy-tale story. None of that Gran and I used to make cookies in her cozy kitchen crap.”

Benedict remembered what Locky had said in the diner—about not having those kinds of memories from his childhood. He thought about dropping the subject, but curiosity got the better of him. “I’d still like to hear it, if that’s okay?”

Locky appeared to consider this, spooning powdered sugar into a stand mixer. “If I didn’t cook as a kid, I wouldn’t have eaten.”

Benedict stopped mid-sift, the words ringing hot in his ears. “Jesus, Locky...”

“Right? My mom was all about the clubs, always on the hunt for the hottest spot and the hottest guy. I was the unhappy accident from one of those hookups, although she never narrowed it down beyond a dozen candidates. Just like she never let my arrival slow down her lifestyle. There was always another night, another club, another man.” Locky paused before finishing in a low voice. “Another fucking bottle.”

Benedict reached for Locky’s hand across the counter, and the man took it gratefully.

“At night, I used to turn the cooking channels on in the background, just so I could pretend I wasn’t alone. Or I’d play the jazz station on an old portable radio, imagining I was hosting these fancy dinner parties.”

Locky rubbed his face against a thick bicep, seeming annoyed that something this awful might cause the emotion to well up. “And you know how the story goes. Boy grows up, and what does he do? Chases the same clubs and the same men, just like his mama taught him. Drugs, drink and dick. Crying in the gutter with his whiskey-soaked woe is me -s.” Another tear ran through Locky’s beard, this time joined by a bitter laugh. “Such a fucking stereotype, right?”

Benedict squeezed hard on Locky’s hand. “How did you get out of it?”

Locky gathered his breath. “I was supposed to catch up with a friend from high school. One of the few I still had. We hadn’t seen each other in ages and she put on this big feast for me. And I just never showed up, never even remembered that we’d made the fucking plans. Instead, I was drunk or high or in the middle of some fuck pile. And I know people might scoff— oh, it’s just one missed dinner . But it fucking broke me. Because when I saw her again, she told what her night had been like—sitting alone in her apartment, waiting for someone that would never come. I just thought: like mother like fucking son, huh? I’ve finally become just as reckless and selfish and unreliable as her .”

An unexpected calm washed over Locky, a darkness he must have long ago reckoned with. “And something just snapped in me, you know? I knew I didn’t want to be like that. That I was better than that. So I found my first group meeting. I saved up and went to college, for the most boring, stable thing I could find. I cut out everything from that former life, everything that might tempt me back. And I just tried to be better. To get that nine-to-five and be as normal as possible.”

Benedict exhaled slowly. Suddenly, Locky’s contradictions made sense. The fear of sex? The fear of spending money? Why someone as creative as Locky would trap himself away in a profession he didn’t love.

Because, despite everything he’d gone through, despite everything he’d endured, Locky just wanted to be a better person.

“I think you’ve come a really long way, Locky,” said Benedict. “And I think you should be really fucking proud of that.”

* * *

Locky resisted the urge to intervene, despite how unevenly Benedict was trimming the pastry. Because there was something charming in seeing him like this, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tie discarded.

Benedict stared at his handiwork. “I... completely butchered that, didn’t I?”

“No! Well, yes. A little.”

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot. But pies are meant to look rustic.”

“Should I add that to the list of pros on the pie list?” said Benedict, gesturing a pastry-crusted hand to the wall. “That you can screw them up and they still look good?”

“Maybe wash your hands first? If you get butter on Kai’s Rubelli wallpaper he’ll kill both of us.”

Benedict snorted. “He finally got his Rubelli, huh? Just like he always wanted.”

“I keep forgetting you roomed with him in college. What was little twink Kai like?”

“The same but skinnier? If he wasn’t talking about boys, he was talking about brands. He was so obsessed with shaking off his rural upbringing. He always said that when he made it big, he’d only work for Fortune 500s, and only drive a German car, and he’d live in the right neighborhood and wear the right suits and yada, yada, yada.” Benedict looked around the apartment. “I guess he made it happen.”

“I don’t think you can talk much about suits, Mr. Owens.”

“Touché. Although you can blame my parents for that. And Tris. She’s always argued that small businesses owners should act like big time CEOs. That it makes your clients feel like they’re getting the diamond club experience, even if they’re only paying for bronze. At least I managed to avoid the Fortune 500s?”

“You weren’t tempted to be like Kai? Take a trip down millionaire’s row as a high-powered consultant?”

“I’m lucky that I can offer my services for a reasonable price. Money isn’t exactly an issue in the Owens family.”

Locky thought about that. “Not that I’m asking for a handout, but why charge at all, if you don’t need the money?”

“I tried! The first few months after I graduated, I thought I’d offer my services for free. Handing them out to whoever needed them most. But it didn’t work. Clients always felt bad about the situation, like they were exploiting me, or they’d rush through everything so fast I couldn’t do a proper job. I didn’t hit my stride until I started charging.”

“So you’d do this work for free? If you could?”

“Yeah, I would. I remember helping some family friends when I was still a freshman. It was just some basic business advice to streamline their boutique, but it doubled their sales in just a few months. And that stuck with me. You aren’t just making tiny tweaks on a spreadsheet with small businesses, you’re literally changing someone’s life.”

“So that closeness wasn’t something you always avoided?” said Locky, before quickly backtracking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean... You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine. God, you’ve shared so much about yourself, I’m probably due. I actually loved that about the job. Getting to know these funny, weird, passionate people with clever ideas but no clue how to make them real.”

Benedict laughed as he launched into the greatest hits of his former clients, captivating Locky with the hijinks. There were unbelievably niche business permits and last-second deals to secure rugs from Belgium, and a live dog-grooming display that went horribly wrong after a prized poodle got a tummy bug.

And with each story, the glow around Benedict seemed to brighten. The way his face lit up as he remembered these people.

And then, the glow faded.

Locky wrapped Benedict in a hug as the tears came, sudden and sharp. Just like Benedict had done for him. Just like Benedict deserved.

“Sorry,” sniffled Benedict. “It’s so fucking stupid. It was just one client, one fucking bankruptcy. I know I’ve done a lot of good, that I’ve helped a lot of people. So why can’t I just get over it? It’s not like I went through any real trauma. This is nothing compared to what you experienced.”

Locky rubbed Benedict’s back, his jaw set by something he encountered far too often in his nightly meetings. “Please don’t do that to yourself, Benedict,” he said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t minimize your suffering like that. Don’t tell yourself that your pain is invalid because it isn’t big enough, or that other people have been through more. Because down that path lies shame instead of healing. Life affects everyone differently. Some people get bitten by a dog and shrug it off. Others spend every day of their life terrified that it will happen again. There’s no rhyme for these things. It isn’t about how weak or strong you are. And it isn’t for other people to decide whether or not your trauma is real. It is real, because you’ve lived it.”

Benedict didn’t respond to that. But Locky could have sworn his breathing became a little easier.

“So how does your panic manifest? Like, is this a problem? Being here with me? It’s okay if it is. I won’t be offended.”

Benedict gave him a tragic smile. “You’re not going to open your store, right?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Then I think we’ll be fine. It’s low risk, you know?”

Locky nodded, the relief building in his chest—confirmation that Benedict didn’t plan to cut him off once they were done making his business plan. It was a relief Locky didn’t know he’d been craving.

“And with your regular clients?”

“It’s hard to explain. Not getting close is more of a logical defense than a visceral one. Just to make it easier at the end? The actual nerves don’t start until closer to opening day. Then the thoughts creep in—all the second guessing. What if I’ve forgotten something or given bad advice? What if someone’s trusted me and I’ve put them in a position to fail? And by the time their store actually opens...”

Benedict’s lip quivered and Locky could see the guilt wash across his face. All the people that he’d abandoned. All the people that he’d pushed away. The connections that had been severed before their time. The friends that had been forgotten before they’d been made.

This time, Benedict held the emotion back, blinking it gone. “Thank you for putting up with this,” he whispered. “You’ve got enough going on without taking on my shit.”

“Funny,” said Locky. “I was about to say the same thing to you.”

* * *

Locky could have bottled the smell of his kitchen—spicy cinnamon and sweet vanilla, deep chocolate and the fragrant tang of green apples. It was just on dusk now, and the room seemed to glow like a crackling fireplace.

Benedict leaned over the counter and took a deep breath. On the left were red velvet cupcakes, their ruddy crumb topped by an obscene amount of pearl-white frosting, double the height of the cake. On the right was a Dutch apple pie, the crisp golden crust giving way to a Christmas-warm crumble, the caramelized spots swirling with a dark, sweet resonance.

Locky sat on the living room floor with his laptop, finding some fitting background music to enhance the tasting experience—just as Benedict had suggested. He selected “Fly Me to the Moon,” by Frank Sinatra and Count Basie, filling the room with a rich and mellow ambience.

They were both in socks now, with Locky tapping his foot against the thick rug. And rather than summoning Locky back, Benedict brought the desserts over to him, sitting with his legs folded into the space between them, their feet close but not quite touching.

Now, the only thing left to do was make the final decision.

Locky took the spoon first, digging the glinting metal into crisp pastry. Apple pieces flowed from the crust, the sauce sweet and sticky.

And as Locky held the spoon up to the light, a thought overtook him, making his hand pause and his heart beat faster.

Because this feeling—this strange and curious feeling—was new to him.

No, not new.

Forgotten .

And Locky’s defenses told him to keep it that way. That he was being stupid. That he shouldn’t indulge this sudden desire. That it was too risky and too much could go wrong.

And his defenses were right to think that. Of course they were. They’d kept him safe for so damn long.

But in this moment, in this place... Locky didn’t want to be safe anymore.

Locky turned the spoon around and brought it slowly to Benedict’s lips. “I owe you the first bite,” he whispered, his fingers shaking. “After those awful cookies I gave you last time.”

Benedict looked at his hand curiously, and Locky feared that he’d misread everything. That all the comments and touches throughout the day had been nothing more than two broken people finding platonic comfort in each other.

Locky made to pull his hand back, feeling foolish. But Benedict stopped him, resting fingers against Locky’s elbow. Those same fingers slid slowly up Locky’s forearm, the touch ticklish, before finding their grip against Locky’s wrist—thumb curled against his palm, fingers holding the back of his hand steady.

“Nothing you make could ever be awful, Mr. Sorenson,” said Benedict, his big brown eyes fixed on Locky as he brought his mouth to the metal, holding out his tongue ever so slightly, pink and soft against the silver. And Locky could have sworn, just for a moment, that Benedict pressed his tongue tip along the smooth curve of the spoon before wrapping his lips around the shaft.

The look on Benedict’s face was one that Locky would savor for as long as he lived. Because he looked like he was basking in warm sun on a spring day. Like he’d never known a moment of pain.

Benedict licked his lips and swallowed slowly, seeming to savor the taste. Locky’s stomach was filled with butterflies—imagining that he was that spoon. Imagining that he was feeling that pink and delicate tongue sliding across his skin.

Benedict’s fingertips brushed across Locky’s knuckles as he took the spoon for himself, carving out another divot of apple pie. He offered it to Locky, sweet and steaming.

Fingers still shaking, Locky returned the gripping gesture, running fingers up Benedict’s forearm before coming to rest against his hand. Locky was barely able to handle how much his chest was pounding or how wide Benedict was smiling.

The spoon came softly across his own tongue, held out slightly, just like Benedict had done.

The warm sweetness swelled through Locky’s mouth, rich and heady. And in that moment, Locky didn’t know if it was the song or the spice or their long day together, but nothing had ever tasted quite so wonderful.

Locky was surrounded by a strange sensation, like moonlight drifting through smoke. The sound of laughter, sweet as cinnamon. The rise and fall of notes as people danced the stars to sleep. And through it all that taste of butter and vanilla. Like a promise that everything would be okay.

And then, for the first time ever, with a clarity that almost made him gasp, Locky could see his bakery.

When he finally opened his eyes, Benedict was grinning. “Pies?” he asked.

Locky let the taste linger, before finally nodding. “Pies,” he repeated. The music tempted Locky’s focus as he turned to the laptop, the words forming as the smoke faded from view. “You... said puns sell, right?”

Benedict’s grin grew wider. “I did. Do you have a good one?”

“Maybe? What do you think about the name... Pie Me to the Moon ?”

He’d expected Benedict to laugh. But instead, Benedict’s expression set Locky’s skin aflame. Because Benedict looked at him like was fine art in a gallery, precious and curious and wonderful. “You, Mr. Sorenson, are far too fucking adorable.”

Locky shuddered under the praise, under the heat of how it was said. Because it wasn’t made as some playful comment. It was said with fire—in a voice that practically pinned him to the rug and laid warm kisses along his neck.

Benedict seemed to realize this as well. “Sorry, that was... I’m not trying to break your rules or anything.”

Locky’s stomach sank, struggling to find the right thing to say. Because of course Benedict would respond that way. After everything Locky had said about his decade without sex, it would be cruel for him to do anything else.

Worse still, Locky didn’t know where to go from here. Because what was he even asking? What was he even offering?

Was he just playing around with a desire—just entertaining the thought? Or was he actually proposing something real—something physical ?

Locky didn’t know. Not for certain.

The only thing he knew was that he didn’t want this moment to end. Or for Benedict to stop touching him.

And if he didn’t say something now, the moment might pass.

When Locky finally spoke, chest pounding and skin prickling, it felt like ten years of fear and torment were dancing across his tongue. “I... I think a decade might be long enough? You know?”

Before Benedict could respond there was a burst of hallway light as Kai opened the front door. He looked down at them with a raised eyebrow, and it took Locky and Benedict a surprised beat before they ungripped each other’s hands, like teenagers caught under the bleachers.

Kai gave them a shit-eating grin. “As much as I’d love to mock whatever this is, you know your meeting starts in fifteen minutes?”

Locky scrambled for his phone, knocking over the uneaten cupcakes. “Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck!”

Kai waved a hand. “Breathe, Babycakes. Daddy will drive you.”

Locky ran toward his bedroom to change, before remembering the conversation he’d just been having. He turned around sharply, only to run into Benedict’s chest.

He looked up at Benedict, cold reality slapping Locky across the face. Because why the fuck had he said all that stuff? He’d only just found Benedict, broken and vulnerable and finally having someone to talk to, and Locky had taken it there ? It was so fucking selfish of him. Benedict needed someone to help him, to understand him, not someone who’d use his vulnerability for their own twisted desires!

“I’m so sorry,” said Locky. “That was stupid of me. Just forget I said anything, okay?”

But rather than being relieved that he could now ignore Locky’s offer, Benedict leaned in by his ear, so close that Locky could almost taste the cinnamon on his breath. “And what if I don’t want to forget about it?” said Benedict, his voice flickering with fire. “What if I really liked where that conversation was going, Mr. Sorenson?”