Chapter 110: Running
Chapter Eleven
Charlie
I wake up knowing it happened.
For one blissful second, still caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness, I forget.
Then the memory crashes into me.
The kitchen.
The dishes.
The touch.
The kiss.
My eyes snap open.
The ceiling comes into focus above me, pale and ordinary and completely useless. I stare at it for a long moment, as if maybe the answers will appear in the plaster if I concentrate hard enough.
They do not.
So I bury my face in the couch cushion and groan.
Because what the hell?
What the actual hell?
Cade kissed me.
Not almost kissed me. Not looked at me like he wanted to kiss me. Not some weird misunderstanding I’d built up in my head because I’d lost all sense of reason where he was concerned.
He kissed me.
My stomach flips.
The memory replays instantly, whether I want it to or not. The warmth of his lips. The way he’d leaned into me. The way his fingers had curled into my shirt as if he needed something to hold on to. The soft sound he’d made before he’d seemed to remember himself.
My face heats.
God.
It happened.
Then he’d pulled away.
The warmth inside me fades almost as fast as it came, because that part happened too.
The panic.
The retreat.
The distance.
The look on his face.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling again.
Now what?
A soft snore comes from down the hallway.
Jordan.
Oblivious as ever.
Lucky bastard.
Sleep becomes impossible after that.
By seven in the morning, I’m sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee.
Or trying to.
Mostly, I’m staring into it.
Thinking.
Overthinking.
Catastrophically overthinking.
The house remains quiet around me, the kind of morning quiet that feels too fragile to trust. The coffee warms my hands, but it does nothing for the rest of me. My thoughts keep circling the same impossible loop.
Cade kissed me.
Cade ran.
Cade kissed me.
Cade ran.
Then footsteps sound behind me.
I don’t need to turn around.
I know.
Somehow, I always know.
Cade enters the kitchen.
His hair is slightly messy, and his sweatshirt looks slept in. For a moment, he freezes when he sees me. The reaction is brief, barely there, but I catch it.
His eyes flick toward mine.
Then away.
There it is.
Again.
Running.
Only now I know exactly what he’s running from.
Or at least part of it.
The silence stretches between us, awkward and heavy, neither of us seeming to know what to say. Then his scent reaches me.
Cinnamon and vanilla.
Warm. Soft. Familiar.
It rolls through the kitchen, subtle at first, then closer when he steps toward the coffee maker. My fingers tighten around my mug.
For one dangerous second, I forget about the panic. I forget about the way he backed away. I forget about Jordan sleeping down the hall, and every complicated reason this should probably be strange.
All I remember is his mouth on mine.
The scent curls around me like a hand at the back of my neck, pulling my attention straight to him. My pulse jumps. Something in my chest goes warm and restless, and I have to look down at my coffee before I do something stupid, like step into his space just to see if that scent is stronger at his throat.
God.
This is becoming a problem.
Finally, Cade clears his throat. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
Brilliant.
Truly exceptional conversation.
I should write a book.
Cade busies himself making coffee. I watch him. He pretends not to notice.
I know he notices.
The scent of him mixes with the coffee, cinnamon, and vanilla layered beneath bitter warmth, and it is unfair. Completely unfair. My body reacts before my brain can stop it, leaning a little toward him like I’m being pulled by something under my skin.
I force myself to sit still.
Eventually, I say it, because somebody has to.
“Cade.”
His shoulders tense.
Just slightly.
Enough.
He doesn’t turn around. “What?”
My pulse speeds up. “About last night—”
“No.”
The response comes so fast it startles me.
He finally turns, the coffee mug clenched in both hands. His expression is guarded. Careful. Like he’s standing on thin ice and one wrong word from either of us will send him under.
“We’re not talking about it.”
I blink.
Then stare.
Then stare harder.
Because surely I heard him wrong.
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Cade—”
“No.”
His voice sharpens.
Not angry.
Desperate.
The distinction matters.
A lot.
Something twists in my chest because he’s scared. I don’t know why, not completely, but he’s scared. And I suddenly don’t want to push. Not right now. Not while he looks like that.
So instead, I ask quietly, “Why?”
The question hangs between us.
For a second, I think he might answer.
Then footsteps thunder down the hallway.
Jordan.
Of course.
The timing remains spectacular.
Jordan stumbles into the kitchen, half asleep, hair sticking up, completely unaware that his best friend and his father are standing in the middle of an emotional disaster.
“Morning.”
Neither of us responds.
Jordan pauses. Looks between us. Frowns.
Then shrugs.
The man notices absolutely nothing.
Remarkable.
Breakfast is weird.
Painfully weird.
At least for me.
Jordan remains his usual self. Talking. Eating. Talking while eating. Probably violating several laws of nature.
Cade mostly listens.
I mostly watch.
Every now and then, our eyes meet. Every single time, one of us looks away.
The tension never fully disappears. It just settles beneath everything, like a live wire hidden under the floorboards.
Jordan doesn’t notice.
Of course, he doesn’t.
I genuinely think Cade and I could start making out in the middle of the kitchen, and Jordan would just ask somebody to pass the orange juice.
At one point, Cade reaches across the table for the butter, and his sleeve shifts up his wrist. The movement is small. Nothing. Completely normal.
But his scent drifts closer with it.
Cinnamon. Vanilla.
Warm enough to make my thoughts stutter.
My hand tightens around my fork. For half a second, I can’t hear whatever Jordan is saying. All I can focus on is Cade’s wrist, the line of his hand, the memory of those fingers gripping my shirt last night.
I look away so fast my neck almost hurts.
Jordan pauses mid-sentence. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“You look weird.”
“You always look weird.”
He points his fork at me. “Rude.”
“Accurate.”
Jordan accepts this and goes back to eating.
Across the table, Cade doesn’t look at me, but the faint flush on his face tells me he noticed.
Wonderful.
By noon, Jordan decides we need groceries.
Why?
I don’t know.
The refrigerator looks full to me.
Apparently, that’s irrelevant.
So the three of us pile into Jordan’s car.
And that’s how I end up trapped in a vehicle with Cade.
Wonderful.
Jordan drives. I sit in the passenger seat. Cade sits behind me.
I can feel his presence.
Which is ridiculous.
People aren’t supposed to be that noticeable.
Yet somehow, he is.
Every shift. Every movement. Every quiet exhale.
I notice all of it.
Worse, his scent fills the small space slowly, sneaking up on me until it’s everywhere. Cinnamon and vanilla cling to the air around us, wrapping around the inside of the car until there’s no escaping it.
I roll the window down an inch.
Jordan glances over. “It’s cold.”
“I’m hot.”
“It’s January.”
“Congratulations on knowing the month.”
He gives me an offended look, then turns back to the road.
Behind me, Cade is silent.
Too silent.
I can picture him back there, probably staring out the window, probably pretending not to notice that I just cracked the window because his scent was getting under my skin so badly I could barely think.
The problem is, the cold air doesn’t help much.
It just sharpens everything.
Coffee from Jordan’s travel mug.
Cold winter air.
And beneath it all, Cade.
Warm. Sweet. Unavoidable.
The grocery store itself becomes a blur.
Jordan grabs random things. I argue with him. Jordan argues back.
Normal.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Then we reach the coffee aisle.
Cade stops.
I stop too.
Jordan has already wandered away.
Naturally.
The aisle is narrow, and Cade is closer than he’s been all day. Not touching me. Not even close enough to count as standing in my space.
But close enough.
His scent finds me before I can brace for it.
Cinnamon and vanilla, richer here somehow, maybe because there’s nowhere for it to go between the shelves and the bags of coffee. It folds into the bitter roasted smell surrounding us, and the combination hits me hard enough that I nearly forget why I stopped.
My mouth goes dry.
For one horrible, perfect second, all I want is to step closer.
Just one step.
Just enough to breathe him in properly.
Just enough to find out if the scent is strongest beneath his jaw, where his pulse is beating too fast.
My fingers flex against the shopping cart handle.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am not losing my mind in the coffee aisle of a grocery store while Jordan is somewhere nearby buying cereal like none of this is happening.
I force myself to focus.
“Cade.”
His shoulders tense again.
I hate that.
I hate being the reason.
“We need to talk.”
“No.”
I stare.
He stares right back.
For once, he doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t flee. Doesn’t pretend.
Just stands there looking exhausted.
“Cade—”
“It can’t happen.”
The words hit me like a punch.
I freeze. “What?”
His jaw tightens. “It can’t.”
My heart sinks.
Because now we’re finally talking.
And I don’t think I’m going to like what he has to say.
“Why?”
The question comes out rougher than intended.
His gaze drops briefly, then lifts. “I’m thirty-seven.”
I blink.
Okay.
Not what I expected.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
A disbelieving laugh escapes him. “Charlie.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re twenty-two.”
I shrug. “So?”
The look he gives me is almost comical. Like I’ve just announced that the sky is green.
“Fifteen years.”
“Still not seeing the issue.”
“Ch—”
He cuts himself off and runs a hand through his hair. Frustration flashes across his face. Not directed at me. At himself, at the situation. At everything.
“My son is your best friend.”
There it is.
Jordan.
I knew he’d come up eventually.
I lean against the shopping cart. “And?”
Cade actually looks offended. “And?”
“Yeah.”
“Charlie.”
“He’d survive.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Because it’s true.
Jordan might freak out. He might complain. He might threaten both of us.
But would he survive?
Absolutely.
The problem is that Cade doesn’t look convinced.
Not even a little.
His scent shifts then.
It’s subtle, but I feel it more than smell it. The cinnamon warms. The vanilla sweetens. Something anxious threads through it, something sharp enough to make my alpha instincts sit up and pay attention.
My body goes still.
Because suddenly it isn’t just want anymore.
It’s the urge to comfort.
To soothe.
To step closer and tell him he doesn’t have to keep carrying this alone.
The force of it nearly knocks me off balance.
Cade must see something change on my face, because his eyes widen slightly.
I grip the cart harder.
Do not move.
Do not touch him.
Do not scent him in the middle of a grocery store.
Before I can say anything else, Jordan appears, pushing a cart.
“Why are you two standing here?”
Neither of us answers.
Jordan looks between us. Then at the coffee. Then back at us.
“Huh.”
My heart stops.
Has he finally noticed?
After all this time?
Jordan points at a bag of coffee beans. “This one is on sale.”
Nope.
Still oblivious.
Incredible.
Absolutely incredible.
That night, after Jordan falls asleep, I lie awake on the couch again, staring into the darkness.
Thinking.
The conversation replays over and over.
The age gap.
Jordan.
The fear.
Because that’s what I heard more than anything.
Fear.
Not disgust. Not rejection.
Fear.
And somehow, that gives me hope.
Dangerous hope.
The worst kind.
Because if Cade truly didn’t want me, things would be simple.
Painful.
But simple.
Instead, every conversation leaves me more convinced that he does want me.
And that’s the problem.
I roll onto my side, staring toward the hallway. Toward the room where Cade is sleeping. Toward the omega who kissed me and then ran from me.
Again.
Even from here, even with walls between us, I swear I can still imagine his scent. Cinnamon and vanilla, soft and warm and maddening. It has been haunting me all day. In the kitchen. In the car. In the grocery store. Every time it got too close, it almost pulled something out of me I wasn’t ready to name.
Almost.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth.
Because for the first time since all this started, I feel like I’m finally seeing the shape of the problem.
Cade isn’t fighting me.
He’s fighting himself.
And that’s a very different battle.
One I have absolutely no intention of losing.