Chapter 30
Nolan
I collapse onto the mat, my muscles screaming in agony. My arms are jelly, my lower back is on fire, and my dignity? Probably somewhere out there floating in the ocean with the seagulls.
Jack.
That smug, grinning bastard.
How dare he pull stunts like that? Hands creeping under my waistband on the mat earlier, right next to fucking Ciel.
And now? Now he's back to playing Saint Jack, doting alpha extraordinaire.
"... flexibility," he's saying now, all smooth as he guides Ciel across the room.
His hand is possessively, almost casually, splayed across Ciel's waist as if it belongs there. As if it's always belonged there. Acting like he's auditioning for for World's Best Baby Daddy.
Fucking hypocrite.
I click my tongue, the sound sharp and ugly in my mouth.
You'd think he was the sire of the child.
But then I catch it—the look in his eyes as he gazes down at Ciel.
Soft. Unguarded. Like all the sharp edges in him melt just being near him. And I know, deep down, you can't fake that. No smug grin, no teasing wink can mimic what's happening on his face right now.
And that's what guts me.
Because this—this is exactly what Ciel deserves. Someone who looks at him like that. Someone who sees more than his designation, more than his pretty face.
I should be happy for him.
Then Ciel leans up—so casual, like it's second nature—and presses a kiss to Jack's cheek.
And Jack.exe officially stops working.
He freezes, blinking like someone just slapped him with a sunrise. The big, bad alpha actually looks stunned. His mouth opens slightly, no sound coming out. Then, slowly, he smiles. Not the smug teasing smirk he usually throws at me, but something soft. Bright. And genuine.
And I feel something twist in my chest.
I don't know if Jack is in love with Ciel yet.
But it's pretty damn close. Too close.
That's good, right?
That's good. That's what I want.
So why does it burn?
And then, like the bastard he is, Jack makes deliberate eye contact with me across the room… and winks.
My stupid heart stutters.
No.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I bolt upright, ignoring the protest of my sore muscles, and rush out of the room like it's on fire.
*
"You'd better have a good reason for making me waddle all the way down here," a voice grumbles behind me.
I don't have to look to know it's him. The corners of my mouth lift anyway.
I turn and there he is—Ciel, cheeks flushed from the walk, arms folded over his huge stomach as he makes his slow, duck-like descent toward me. He looks ridiculous and royal at the same time, somehow managing both. After an undignified little grunt, he plops down beside me in the sand, struggling to find a comfortable angle before letting his head tip onto my shoulder.
My chest goes warm, that familiar warmth that only seems to exist in his presence. Like the sunset leaking directly into my ribcage.
"There's no reason," I say, eyes on the ocean. "Just wanted to watch the waves."
He makes a soft noise in his throat. "The sun is setting. You've been out here since noon."
I shrug. "Had a lot on my mind."
He groans dramatically, rubbing his back with one hand.
"Ugh, my spine is staging a coup."
After some more awkward shifting, he abandons the idea of sitting altogether and lowers himself across my lap, sprawling like a spoiled cat. Acting as if he wasn't breathing steady during his stretching session.
Automatically, my hand comes up to shield his face from the last harsh streaks of sunlight.
He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, those impossible lashes that make him look carved out of a fairytale. His scarlet hair catches the dying light, copper and gold at the edges, and for a moment I almost forget how to breathe.
He's pretty, too pretty. Always has been, and that's been the cause of many problems.
"Stop staring at me so much," he mutters, eyes still closed.
"I think I see a booger," I deadpan.
His eyes snap open, scandalized. He slaps his hands over his nose with a gasp. "You liar!"
I'm already laughing, doubled over with it. The sound makes him scowl, and then he shoves at my chest with all the menace of an angry kitten.
"You asshole," he huffs, turning away from me with an exaggerated pout.
I can't stop grinning. "You make it too easy."
He flops back onto my lap in a defeated heap, like my legs are the only place worth existing. A few strands of his hair fall across his face, tickling his nose. Without thinking, I reach down and tuck them gently behind his ear.
He stills. Then, softly: "That feels nice. Do it again."
I know exactly what he means. My fingers slide back into his hair, slow and gentle, combing through the soft scarlet strands.
He sighs, long and unguarded, the kind of sound that comes from deep inside.His whole body melts against my lap like I've found some hidden switch that lets him rest.
He sighs again, long and content, and then lets out this low sound—half yawn, half moan—that goes straight to my spine. My hand stutters for a second before I force it to keep moving.
Get it together.
He's just relaxed. That's all it is. It's not supposed to make me think about things I shouldn't. But my body doesn't seem to care about what's appropriate but with practiced ease, I stir my thoughts away and relax my body.
It's not his fault my mind is like this. It's never been his fault. He's just Ciel, I'm the one with all these emotions.
***
Jack
How does a pregnant man disappear?
I swear, you'd think the baby bump alone would make him impossible to lose. But no—turn your back for one second and poof, gone. Like some waddling Houdini.
I search the house room by room, only to find nothing. Then I glance out through the glass walls of my living room, and there,way down by the water I spot them. Two vague shapes, framed against the dying light.
Of course.
I head outside, grumbling under my breath as I take the narrow stairs that lead down to the beach. The evening air is cool, salty. The waves crash gently against the shore in a rhythm that sounds almost like breathing.
I love the beach. I do. But I hate sand in my shoes. And right now my slippers are being violated by a thousand tiny grains.
Still, I keep walking.
And then I see them properly.
Ciel lying with his head in Nolan's lap, the fading sun painting him in gold. Nolan's hand in his hair, fingers threading through those ridiculous scarlet waves with the kind of gentleness, that only ever shows up around Ciel.
It's… something.
It looks like one of those couple stock photos on the baby blogs Ciel's been obsessed with lately—the ones he shows me at breakfast with way too much enthusiasm
For the first time in years, I have the urge to take a picture.
I almost laugh at myself. Me—Jack. The guy with a reputation that used to make grown men piss themselves—standing barefoot in the sand, wanting to capture a Hallmark moment like some sentimental fool.
Photography used to be my thing. Once upon a time. Before life got messy. Before I started working for people who decided what a man could and couldn't be.
"What kind of gangster likes photography?"my old boss had sneered.
Then he'd burned down my tiny studio.
That memory still pisses me off when it surfaces. But tonight… it feels distant. Like it happened to someone else. Maybe it did.
Because right now, no one's here to tell me what I can or can't like. And I'm looking at them—Ciel's soft profile, Nolan's protective posture, the orange wash of the sunset—and my chest aches with something I don't want to name.
I pull my phone out of my pocket.
Line up the shot.
Click.
The picture is beautiful.
They look like a couple in an advertisement for some perfect life I've never believed in.
They don't even notice me.
And I can't tell if I feel like an intruder… or if I wish I could step into that picture too.