Chapter 29
Nolan
I hit the weights hard, trying to outrun my own brain. If I'm moving, sweating, burning my muscles into useless jelly, I can't think.
Can't think about Ciel's laugh.
Can't think about how his face softens when he looks at Jack.
And sure as hell can't think about the way Jack's shirt clings to his back right now.
I fail. Obviously.
My eyes wander against my will—traitors.
There he is, across the home gym, pounding the heavy bag. Each strike sends the chain creaking and his shoulder blades flexing beneath that thin tank top. There's sweat dripping down the nape of his neck. It rolls slow, catching in the line of his spine—
Stop it, Nolan. Stop. It.
I silently yell at myself, jerking my gaze back to my own bench like it personally offended me. I hate him. I hate Jack. He's smug, infuriating, always one smirk away from making me commit a felony.
And he's also… really, really attractive.
Unfortunately, two things can be true at the same time.
I slap on a couple of plates and lie back on the bench, gripping the bar. Work until your brain turns off. That's the goal. Nothing but sweat and sore muscles. The best way to avoid… him.
I start pressing. One rep. Two. Three—
My focus slips for half a second, eyes darting back to the alpha across the room.
Big mistake.
The bar tilts, my grip falters. The weight lurches toward my chest in a very this is how I die kind of way.
"Careful!" A voice cuts across the room.
A pair of hands grab the bar just in time, yanking it from me and clanging it onto the rack with a thud. My heart is hammering; not sure if it's adrenaline or humiliation.
"What were you thinking?!" Jack barks, eyes wide. For once, the smirk is gone, replaced by actual concern.
Fantastic. Kill me now.
"I wasn't," I grumble, sitting up and wiping sweat off my forehead. My voice comes out sullen, teenage-rebel style.
"Well, try not to be distracted next time," he snaps.
He was worried about me.
"The last thing Ciel needs right now is to worry about you," he continues.
Of course.
"Yeah, I'll be more careful," I mutter. He gives me one last assessing look, then turns and walks away—back to the punching bag, back to not caring.
And God, what a difference.
If it had been Ciel under that barbell, Jack would've been full emergency-mode: hovering, checking his pulse, panicking like a mother hen. He'd probably have carried him bridal-style to bed with a glass of water and a TED Talk on safety.
Me? I get a scolding and a shrug. Careless. Done.
Why does that sting?
I glare at his back, those stupid broad shoulders flexing with every punch. It's not like I want him to babyme.
I don't want the same attention Ciel gets.
…Right?
***
Jack
I get home with the groceries… and the overripe avocados Ciel swore were an "essential."
Do you know how humiliating it is to beg the grocery store staff to dig through the bin of produce about to be tossed? The way they looked at me—like I was some desperate avocado gremlin.
But then I dropped the magic words: "My pregnant omega really wants these."
Instant transformation. The side-eyes turned into nods of deep understanding and pity. Suddenly, three staff members were helping me pick the "perfect batch" of what are basically green mush balls.
Argh. The smell of avocado is going to haunt me.
I lock the garage door and head down the hallway, ready to hand over the treasure to the avocado monster himself.
Instead, I find… this.
In the living room.
Two pairs of asses. In the air.
…Is it my birthday?
This is not what I expected to find when I came home with overripe avocados.
Neither of them notice me, so I just… stand there. For science.
Compare and contrast:
Ciel—small, supple, a perfect curve as he bends lower into the pose.
Nolan—plump, shapely, all those squats in the gym clearly paying off.
Sweet versus salty. Two different flavors. Both look delicious.
…And now I feel like a perv.
I glance around the room just in case there's an imaginary audience with popcorn judging me. When I confirm I'm safe, I clear my throat—loudly.
"I'm back. And I have the avocados," I announce, shaking the plastic bag like it's a victory banner.
"Oh, Jack, you're back," Ciel chirps from his pose without missing a beat.
"What's going on here?" I ask, walking closer to the world's most tempting living room yoga class.
"It helps pregnant people to be active," Ciel replies serenely.
I toss the bag on a table and stroll between the two of them, eyeing Nolan's trembling arms.
"You pregnant too, Nolan? Did I miss a memo?" I ask, deadpan.
His shirt has ridden up; there are a few beads of sweat trickling down his lower back. He looks miserable.
"Well, fuck you," Nolan grits out, but the usual bite isn't there. It's almost pathetic. I snicker.
"Well, I didn't want to do it alone," Ciel says, perfectly balanced, not a hair out of place.
Feeling bold—maybe reckless—I rest my palm on Nolan's lower back, fingers brushing the damp line of sweat there.
"So you dragged your best friend into it," I say casually, like I'm not currently playing with fire… or the waistband of his shorts. My fingers toy there, just under the hem, and Nolan shivers hard enough to wobble in his pose.
Amusing doesn't even begin to cover it.
"Well, he wouldn't be struggling if he listened to me," Ciel says serenely from the other mat, "and actually carried less weight and did Pilates with me."
I smirk. "Oh, guess I underestimated you, Ciel." My fingers dip a little further under Nolan's waistband, and his breath stutters.
Now this is fun.
Then Ciel, oblivious or maybe just effortlessly smug, adds, "Yeah, I am pretty flexible."
I pause. Flexible?
My attention snaps to him like a moth to a flame.
Forget Nolan, and I pad to Ciel.
"How flexible?" I ask, voice lower than I mean it to be, eyes locking on him with unholy levels of interest.
He tilts his head, lips curling in the faintest hint of a smirk. "Pretty flexible."
And then, just as if you prove his point, he rises gracefully to his feet with the kind of ease that shouldn't be legal for someone seven months pregnant.
"Whoa, hold on there." I catch his elbows instinctively, steadying him.
"Should you really be making those kinds of moves while pregnant?"
"Probably not," he admits with a bright, shameless grin, golden eyes sparkling.
"I brought you your avocados, by the way," I say, sliding a hand to his waist as I guide him gently away from the mat.
"But let's circle back to this alleged flexibility of yours."
Ciel's smile turns sly. "Curious, aren't you?"
"Extremely," I confess, no shame in my voice. Because I am. More than extremely. Catastrophically curious.