Page 38

Selene

F or the first time in weeks I woke without the looming nightmare chasing me awake or the cryptic words of the shadow figure ringing in my ears as I blink my eyes open.

The slow rise and fall of Caelon’s chest accompanied with his warmth almost pulls me back under as I lay here basking in the comfort of his arms.

I lift my head up and stare at his sleeping face.

Calm, serene, and without his normal wrinkles of confusion as he watches everyone interacting.

I might not have spent as much time watching him as he spent watching me, but that doesn’t mean that I never saw him.

Even if he did everything in his power to be unseen by everyone.

A strand of his hair has fallen down on his forehead, something I never would have imagined seeing on him. He’s always had the cleanest clothes, his hair slicked back, and nothing out of place.

My fingers itch to mess his hair up more, to completely undo him, more than we did yesterday.

Tentatively, as if the slightest movement might take this moment from me, I slide my hand up, watching his face to see if he reacts, and I hook the strand of hair around my finger.

The soft, brown hair slides through my finger before he turns his head, sighing in his sleep.

His eyes flick behind his eyelids as he dreams.

Leaning back, my eyes roam down his chest following the path that my finger lightly traces.

Exploring the body of my mate without the interruptions of other activities.

My cheeks warm at the thoughts of everything that we did yesterday.

I never imagined in any dream of my mateship that it would have gone the way it did, but I love every second of how it played out.

Even this quiet moment where I’m watching him sleep and exploring.

His skin pebbles as my fingers trace down his chest as he sighs and rolls over.

Not wanting to wake him, I slip out of bed slowly.

The cold, hardwood floor greet my feet as I move across it.

I’m going to need slippers if I’m going to live here.

There is no freaking way I’m going to pad around this house everyday with cold feet.

Grabbing my leggings, I slip them back on and quietly slip on my t-shirt before slipping into his closet to hopefully find a hoodie.

Goddess, what temperature does he keep this house at, sixty?

Thankfully, right at the back of his walk-in closet is a stash of dark hoodies,and pulling one off the hook, I slip it on over my head.

Glancing around, I look for a dresser, or maybe somewhere he keeps socks.

His dresser is right along the wall outside his closet door between the closet and bathroom.

Not sure which drawer will have socks, I go with the top one.

The first drawer was unsuccessful. The next drawer is heavy as I pull it towards me. What does he have in here?

My mouth drops open as I let out a gasp.

Glancing behind me quickly, I make sure that I didn’t wake him.

The drawer is full of all kinds of my things.

From pictures I’ve taken and lost to my first piece of pottery I made and hated.

I can’t help my hands shaking as I reach down pulling out the misshaped piece of clay that my mom swore was amazing.

My eyes glance between it and the man sleeping on the bed.

How long has he known and not said anything?

Quietly, I slide the piece back into the drawer and push the drawer closed again.

I’ll have to ask him about it later. For once, I want to be the one sneaking around and learning about him without his knowledge.

Thankfully, the next drawer has his socks.

Rows of neatly bundled together white and black socks fill the drawer.

I mean who literally stacks their socks into perfect rows like this?

This man is going to freak when he realizes that I live off the floor and my laundry basket.

Matching socks? Who has the time for that?

If they are clean and without holes, then I’m golden.

With my feet covered in socks, I pad my way out of the bedroom.

Slowly closing the door behind me, holding the door knob open until I can gently slide it back in place.

His house practically mirrors my parents' home, ith his bedroom being on the back left corner of the home and the bathroom separating the master from the extra bedroom. Of course when I look into the bathroom it’s like nobody has ever used it, let alone that it’s someone’s bathroom.

The extra bedroom is the same way. The bed is perfectly made, even with the comforter tucked in under the mattress.

The basic furniture lines the room. With nothing personable about the space, I shut the door and move down the hallway.

Taking my time because there are actual pictures on the walls here unlike the entire rest of the house.

I stop at the first one and my hand flies to my mouth.

These aren’t just any pictures. These are my pictures.

One’s that I gave Lou to have developed.

Some of these have never been seen by anyone else.

I glance down the hallway to where he’s sleeping. How does he have these?

They are all photos from our valley. The largest one, right dead center of the hallway, is my favorite picture of him.

From when I asked him to slowly walk through the fog towards me.

He knew all along and still played along with my crazy demands.

My finger traces along the back of his wolf reminiscing about that day.

It’s when I really started to question who he was and why I hadn’t ever seen him before.

I continue walking down the hallway, assuming that everything else in the house will mirror my parents.

Everything was such a blur last night when we rushed in.

I didn’t care about the things on the walls, where certain rooms were, and I definitely wasn’t looking for his kitchen last night.

But, in the light of the day, while he rests, I’m looking.

His kitchen is exactly how I imagined it would be.

With gray washed cabinets, butcher block countertops, and open shelving with his dishes neatly displayed.

There isn’t a single dish in the sink, not a speck of dirt on the counter, and no leftover food sitting around.

Everything is put away, giving this kitchen a very home magazine feel.

Like everywhere else in this house, it lacks the feel of someone living here.

As if he could sell it tomorrow and not need to move stuff out.

Every dish has its place, all perfectly curated.

Except for one shelf.

With brows crinkled in confusion, I take tentative steps towards the only shelf with color.

The only shelf that isn’t perfect and in perfectly neat shapes.

My eyes welled up with tears. There, in as neat of rows as he could get them, is every single mug I’ve made with my mom.

The ones I left on the Take One shelf at Muddy Paws.

He’s been the one taking them all along.

In a room full of perfect dishes, bowls, and mugs, he has an entire shelf dedicated to my lumpy, misshapen, chipped creations.

There in the center of the shelf, like a beacon to my eyes, sits the one that I just made.

The odd shape standing out against the others.

The handle feels odd in my hand, almost like I shouldn’t touch it as I bring it down from the shelf.

Slowly turning it over, stamped into the bottom is my crescent moon signature.

My thumb grazes over the top of it feeling the outline along my finger.

My breath caught as the first tear fell.

He’d never said a single word. Not once.

But he’d taken them. Not just the better looking ones as my skills increased, all of them.

He didn’t hide them away in the few cabinets with doors.

No, he put them on display, giving them a shelf all their own.

As if they were worth displaying. Like they were his favorites.

And in this perfect kitchen surrounded by order and symmetry, my imperfect mugs tell me everything I needed to know. Caelon was in love with me, not because of the mate bond, but because he saw me.

“I see you found my stash.”

Gasping, I whip around to find him leaning against the refrigerator.

A soft, easy smile on his face with his arms crossed.

His blue, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips, as his ankles cross showing his bare feet.

His hair damp from a shower, the scent of his soap filling the room as his eyes locked with mine.

Neither of us saying anything as we stare at each other.

“I see you found them already. I was wondering when you would.” His voice is quiet, almost bashful at being caught.

I looked down at the mug. The one with its strange shape that called to me. With a pattern I’d never even thought of until I was in the middle of making it.

“You kept them all,” I whispered.

“I did far more than that.” He pushed off the fridge, his steps deliberate as he came closer to me.

“I waited for them. The days I knew you would be there with your mother. Patiently waiting until you left, hoping nobody would have seen your piece yet. Some days I was lucky and able to grab it before anyone else. Other days I had to barter with the elder who snatched it already.”

My finger swipes across the perfectly sized squares. The glaze highlighting the colors that I’d never been able to perfect before now. A piece I made on a whim in a pattern and shape I didn’t know the name of. I’d just…felt drawn to it.

But he knew what it was.

He stepped closer till his torso was in my line of sight as my fingers continued to trace the pattern along the side of the mug.

“That one is my favorite.”

I looked up at him, surprised.

“Why,” I asked, my voice catching.

His smile was quiet, reverent. “Because it’s math,” he said as he gently pulled the mug from my hand. Holding it up between us, he says, “Clean lines. Balance. The pattern loops in the exact ratio of a Fibonacci spiral.”

My brows furrow, breath stuttering. “I didn’t mean to…”

“I know,” he says.

His gaze drops back down to the mug in his hands.

Something shifting in his expression…soft, unguarded.

As if he is looking at something sacred.

Not clay and glaze, but a relic. A message in his hands that only he could understand.

His jaw flexed as if something had settled in him, his fingers gently caressing the pattern as if they were scripture.

It was worship. Silent, aching adornment.

Sucking in a trembling breath, the sting of tears are hot behind my eyes. This moment suddenly feels heavier…more than clay and art. It was proof. Of him. Of me. The thread that had been tugging between us all along.

I didn’t see the proverbial writing on the wall.

All the small moments drawing me to him.

Like a slideshow playing behind my eyes, the moments flashed.

Meeting Shadow, Cal sitting on the porch at the same time as me, the mug, the gifts, every breadcrumb leading me forward, even my dreams that whispered of him in the dark.

“That’s why it means everything,” he whispered.

“The shape, the symmetry…it’s a pattern.

Something I’ve always been drawn to.” He turns and walks over to his bookshelf in his living room, scanning the titles on the shelf before pulling a worn hardback off the shelf.

His long legs eat up the space as he rushes back to the kitchen, setting both the mug and book down on the counter top between us.

He flips to a page as if he has it memorized.

His fingers run along the sketch, spiraled and elegant, the lines forming a perfect, sacred geometry.

“The golden ratio,” the words left his lips like a confession, “it’s found in everything—from galaxies to pinecones to the bones of our hands. But it’s not just math…it’s the feeling. The balance. The pull.”

His gaze flicks to mine full of worship and adoration.

“You made this without knowing. You shaped something perfect, balanced, and beautiful with your hands, Selene. You made this .” His fingers trace up the curve of the mug again, with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.

“It matched something I’d spent years chasing.

Something I thought only lived in theory and the art of the world. But you—”

He swallows hard as his thumb brushes along the curve of my cheek. “You felt it too. Even if you didn’t know yet. Even if you didn’t understand what you were doing.”

My breath catches in my throat, a soft gasp that stings behind my eyes. The tears come anyways, thick and hot, welling until his face blurs in front of me. His eyes are soft and round, as they flick between mine, cataloging everything.

He lets out a shaky breath, his voice rough as he cups both my cheeks in his hands. His breath whispers across my face. “That’s why it means everything.”

I lean into his touch, my eyes falling shut as our foreheads meet. The air between us hums, thick with realization, with the weight of everything unsaid finally seeing the light of the day. His thumbs brush softly against my cheeks, catching the tears as they fall.

“You felt it too.” His voice trembles as if he’s also struggling to hold his emotions down. “Even if you didn’t know what it was.”

I nod, feeling as though a frog is stuck in my throat, as the sob sticks, not quite escaping as I try to swallow it back down. “I think I always did.”

His thumb hooks under my jaw, gently pushing my head back as my eyes blink open. His eyes flick back and forth as if they can’t miss a single thing that’s happening. “You are my own Golden Ratio.”

His lips brush mine. Not a kiss, not yet. Just a promise. A tether. That quiet moment where gravity shifts, the world falls away, and nothing exists but us.