Page 6

Beau

After what might be the world’s longest shower, Azrael steps out of my bathroom. Steam billows behind him as he wads his dirty clothes into a ball. The flour is gone, no longer hiding the soft glow of his skin underneath.

My sweatpants swallow him whole, the fabric pooled around his feet even though he’s rolled them up a few times, while the t-shirt hangs halfway down his thighs. Instead of looking ridiculous, though, he’s absolutely adorable.

His ebony curls drip, dampening his collar as he wrings at the clothes in his hand. “Do you have a bag I can put these in?”

“Nope, because we’re going to toss them in the washing machine.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“Azrael.” I adopt my strictest teacher’s tone, cutting through his stammer. His eyes flick up, a sheepish expression softening his features. “You’re here helping me , remember? It’s not an imposition.”

“Thanks,” he says, voice gentle. “I’m used to doing things on my own.”

“I can understand that. Parents not much help?”

He snorts, shaking his head as I open the closet holding the washer and dryer. “My parents couldn’t wait for me to get out of their house. They’re both well known in our community, and naturally good at everything. It… takes me longer to figure things out, and I’m clumsy. I-I don’t mean to be, it just happens.”

The way he says it, like he feels the need to defend himself, makes me wonder how long people have been blaming him for things outside his control. My heart pinches at the sadness on his face, so sharp I rub at my chest. “I’ve never lived up to their expectations. Holidays are the only time I see them, and even then, it's tough.”

“Everyone learns different ways, and at different speeds. You just haven’t figured out what learning style works best for you.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Sure am.” The washer starts its cycle, and I turn back to him, careful with my wording. “I’ve been teaching for a decade, and the ‘challenge students’ are my favorites.” My fingers swoop in air quotes as I roll my eyes. “The system loves to assign labels, but most of the time? Those kids just need something explained to them in a different way. Let me take a wild guess… someone has always stood at the front of the classroom and told you how to do things?”

“Yeah,” he says with a timid, dismissive shrug. “Works for everyone else.”

“Fuck everyone else,” I say, and he glances at me, still unsure, as we walk into the kitchen. “Take me, for example. I could’ve read a hundred recipes on how to bake a cake and watched a dozen YouTube videos, but having someone beside me to show me? It makes the process a million times more likely to stick.”

“I can’t imagine you being bad at anything,” he teases, and I bump him with my shoulder.

“You haven’t heard me sing yet. Stick around long enough, and you’ll understand.”

He laughs again, the bright sound chasing away most of his earlier stress. “Where are your measuring cups?” Mild panic flares in my stomach before I remember the single glass Pyrex shoved in the back of the cabinet.

Shamefully, it was last used for hot chocolate, but I keep that bit of truth to myself.

“Mixing bowl?” he asks, and I bite my lip as I pull out the only large container I own—a plastic red and white striped one shaped like a circus popcorn bag. Az flashes me a look as we dump the dry ingredients inside. “You are such a bachelor. Please, tell me you at least have a whisk?”

“Pfft, of course I do,” I claim, as I wonder if that’s true. Scrambled eggs for one person don’t take more than a few whips of a fork. “It’s just… right here… right…” I trail off as I search through the utensil drawer, mumbling a prayer as I dig past the potato masher that still has a tag attached. “Here!” I hold up the metal whisk, waving it around in victory.

“Oh, I am so, so proud,” he says, clutching his heart, and I chuckle as I give him a light shove. Az makes himself at home in my kitchen, rummaging through my drawers before opening the refrigerator and frowning. “No eggs?”

“Of course I have eggs!” He raises a suspicious brow as I open the back door, gesturing for him to follow.

A white hen clucks her hello as we step into the sun. “Henrietta, he thinks we don’t have eggs.” She bobs away, completely uninterested once she realizes there’s no food in my hands. The side of the coop lifts to display a row of nests, pink and green eggs scattered among them. Az is delighted, smiling like a fiend as the chickens dart around the yard, clawing the dirt and searching for bugs.

Back inside, we mix the ingredients and pour them into the cake pans. Azrael’s initial shyness is slowly easing, and it turns out he has a fierce playful side. He’s goofy and sweet, he just struggles with the self-confidence to express himself. The more he loosens up, the more he teases me, and even manages to laugh at himself when he stumbles and almost drops one of the pans. An embarrassed hue still rises on his cheeks, but he doesn’t clam up like he did before.

The washing machine dings, and he swaps his clothes to the dryer while I set the timer for the oven. It’s all very domestic and comfortable, which surprises me. When I’ve dated in the past, I've struggled with the intimacy of having someone else invade my space, but I find I enjoy seeing Az in my home.

“I’m, uh, going to run to the restroom,” he calls from across the room before disappearing behind the door.

My mind wanders as I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. Friends and family have been encouraging me to be more social for years, but I’ve always been content with my own company.

Something about Az is different, though.

When I saw the awful way that woman was treating him, my protective instincts flared like they haven’t in a long time… maybe ever. The need to defend him was a knee to my gut, an instinct I couldn’t ignore.

It’s not like he couldn’t handle it himself physically. Compared to me, he’s not a very big guy, but he’s of average height. His lack of confidence is what gets in his way. It shrinks his presence.

Now that he’s comfortable and letting loose? That presence takes up every inch of this house, and I find I like that, too.

He isn't exactly hard on the eyes. Objectively speaking, he’s a handsome man, and it's no chore for me to watch him as he works.

The beautiful almond tone of his skin that somehow becomes even more delicious when that flush hits his cheeks. Those corkscrew curls that dance around his head, hints of golden highlights shimmering when the light hits them just right.

And then there are those sad gray eyes. They stir my inner caretaker's desire to make him happy again, because when he smiles? They're like the sun breaking through the clouds after a long rainy day.

The ding of the timer makes me frown as I realize how long he’s been gone. Heat from the oven washes over me as I slide my mitts on and remove the three pans, wondering if it would be overstepping to check on him.

The bathroom door flings open, and Az comes out, flushed and flustered .

“Um… are you—”

“Don’t ask,” he pleads, and I decide certain things are best left to the imagination.

“Oh, good, they’re done!” That long sniff of the cakes after he walks over? Definitely a distraction tactic. “We won’t frost them until they’ve cooled; otherwise, everything will melt into an enormous chocolate mess.”

So, we wait.

And we chat, and it’s comfortable.

Once the cakes have cooled enough, he tells me it’s time to level their tops—a step I would’ve never considered without him. A fish fillet knife is the only large, serrated utensil I own, and he makes me swear three different times that it’s clean before he agrees to use it. Still, he lets out a pitiful noise and ends up washing it again.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he says as he scrubs the blade, “because you have a very trustworthy face. But consider the implications. Chocolate fish guts aren’t becoming a trend, and your reputation is at stake.”

“Hmm, agree to disagree. It adds more protein.” I duck and laugh as Az slings water at me, sprinkling my face in droplets.

“Ugh,” he says, suppressing a grin, “I always forget how gross country boys are sometimes. Wait… turn around.” When I only raise a brow, he narrows his eyes and twirls his finger, so I shrug and spin in a circle. “Oh, thank god, there’s no dip can imprint in your back pocket.”

A loud laugh bursts from my chest as I walk over, bracketing his body as I rest my hands on the counter. “Alright, city slicker. The man I picked up from the grocery store was shy and sweet. Where’d this bully come from?”

“Picked up? Is that what that was?” His eyes roll up into mine and I realize how close I’m standing to him, pinning his smaller body. “You can pick me up, big boy,” he teases, and my pulse gallops as he leans closer, lifting onto his toes. Lips grazing my jawline, he dodges my face and moves to my ear as the drumbeat of my heart thuds behind my ribs. “Just don’t forget I’ve got a blade in my hand.”

“You’re something else,” I mutter, and he presses a kiss on my cheek.

“Oh, honey, you have no idea,” he whispers, huffing a quiet laugh as I finally get some of my senses back, giving him space.

A deep flush burns on his cheeks as he waves the knife in front of him. “See? Small but fierce. I knew you were scared of me.”

“Terrified,” I answer honestly, and he chuckles as he trims the cake tops. He shows me how to smooth the icing between the layers, although my thick hands are clumsier than his. By the time we get the three layers put together and frosted on the outside, there’s chocolate all over me.

Azrael, for his part, tries to keep a straight face, but when I turn to face him, he bursts out in a fit of pealing laughter. “Come here, you big hot mess,” he teases, swiping my cheek, and when he pulls back, his fingertip is coated in frosting. “How’d you manage that?”

“Making messes is one of my many skills.” Pure instinct guides me as I grab his wrist, no regard for consequences as I guide his hand to my mouth and suck the chocolate from his finger. Gray irises are eclipsed by his widening pupils as my tongue swirls over his skin.

“Beau,” he murmurs, and I can’t tell if it’s a warning or an encouragement. My throat works in a swallow as I pull off his finger, then smear frosting across his cheek.

“Oops, you got dirty, too,” I tease as I lean closer. I watch his expression for any signs of rejection, but he only breathes in a deep inhale as my lips land, kissing his cheek before my tongue darts out to lick away the chocolate.

If I thought my heart was pounding before, it is nothing compared to the rapid drumming lodged in my neck now. My finger lifts again, a quiet whine forming in his throat as I place a dab of frosting on his lips.

Slow, patient kisses trail along his smooth jaw until I hover over his mouth. Starved for a taste of him, I inch closer, but he stops me with a hand on my chest. “Beau,” he says, and it’s more forceful this time.

My sudden, sharp descent to reality forces me to take a long, unsteady step backward. “Fuck, I’m sorry… I’m being an idiot. This isn’t what you want.” My nervous hand swipes over my chin before I remember I’m covered in frosting, and I groan as my head sags.

Tentative steps approach, and Az places two fingers under my chin, tilting my face up. “Trust me when I say it is what I want… so, so much. But you don’t know me, Beau. We just met, and there are things about me you need to understand. I’m not a hookup kind of guy.”

“I’m not either,” I argue, my voice melting into a hum as he kisses my jaw and chin, licking the frosting from my beard.

“Are you even out?” The words are pillow-soft, barely above a whisper. “It’s okay if you aren’t, and I’d never force that on you, but I’ve seen a lot of broken hearts in my life. Men that want to have their fun and test the waters without leaving their comfort zone. As much as I want you, my heart is the one at stake here.”

“I would never hurt you,” I insist, and his smile is a weak, fluttering thing.

That ache in my chest riots as he says, “I should go, sweetheart, before I do something reckless and end up bent over this counter like we’re both imagining right now.” I shift, trying to hide the way my cock bucks in my jeans, but his eyes drop, tracking the movement. “Yeah, I better go.”

“Let me take you out,” I blurt, and he pauses, assessing me in that thoughtful way of his. “We’ll go out and get to know each other. From there, we can see where it goes.”

“You want to go on a date with me? A public date, clearly a romantic one and not just two guys spending time together?”

“Yes,” I insist, nodding to emphasize my point.

He hesitates, a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eases as he relents. A giant smile tears across my face as he tries to hide his. “Fine. Give me your phone number and we’ll work it out.”

“Don’t I get your number, too?” I know I’m whining, but he only grins deeper.

“You’ll have to trust me to reach out,” he teases, and I pout as I step into his space again.

“Alright. You run the show. Just… please…” I press a soft kiss on the very corner of his mouth. “Please call me.”

“Tease,” he mutters, then nods. “I swear.”