Chapter 249 Someone’s Always

Chapter 249 Someone’s Always
Morning came in through the beach-house windows in long, pale bands of gold.

The ocean was a low, steady hush beyond the glass. White sheets were kicked halfway down the bed. Baby was still half-asleep on his stomach, cheek mashed into Saint's pillow, one bare leg hooked over Saint's thigh like he had claimed him in the night and refused to let go.

Saint woke first, the way he always did.

For a while he only looked.

Baby's hair was a mess of sunlight. There was a faint mark on his shoulder from last night's win, another older one at the base of his throat that Saint had put there on purpose. The line of his back was soft in sleep. His mouth was slightly open. He looked like peace. He looked like everything Saint had almost lost and then fought the whole world to keep.

Saint leaned in and kissed the warm skin between Baby's shoulder blades.

Baby made a small sound. Not awake yet. Just shifting closer.

"Good morning," Saint whispered against his spine.

"Mmm." Baby's voice was wrecked with sleep. "Don't you dare get up."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Saint meant it in every way that mattered.

He kissed lower. Slow. Devoted. The kind of touching that wasn't rushing toward anything yet—just worship. His mouth followed the dip of Baby's back, the rise of his hip, the inside of his thigh when Baby instinctively spread for him without opening his eyes.

"Saint…"

"I've got you."

Saint eased Baby onto his stomach more fully, pillow under his hips, and settled between his legs like he had all morning and nowhere else to be. He kissed the soft skin of Baby's ass first—open-mouthed, unhurried—then dragged his tongue through the cleft in one long, wet stroke.

Baby's breath broke.

"Oh—fuck—"

Saint did it again. Slower. He licked him open with patience that felt like love, holding Baby's hips when they tried to push back, tasting him, groaning quietly into the heat of him. The ocean kept breathing outside. Inside, Baby's fingers twisted in the sheets.

Saint licked deeper. Circled. Pressed his tongue in and stayed there, working him with his mouth until Baby was trembling, cock leaking against the pillow, little broken sounds spilling into the mattress.

"Saint—please—"

Saint turned him carefully onto his back.

Baby's eyes were open now. Soft. Wet at the corners already. Saint kissed the inside of one knee, then the other, then took Baby's cock into his mouth like it was something sacred.

He sucked him slow.

No teasing to be cruel. Just devotion. Wet heat. The slide of his tongue along the underside. One hand stroking what his mouth couldn't take, the other spreading Baby open again so his thumb could rub gently where his tongue had just been.

Baby's head fell back against the pillows. One hand found Saint's hair. Not pulling. Holding.

"I love you," Baby whispered, voice shaking. "I love you so much it scares me."

Saint pulled off just long enough to kiss the head of his cock, then the sharp cut of his hip.

"You don't have to be scared," he said. "I'm here. I'm yours."

He sucked him deeper, moaning around him, then went back down and licked his ass again, alternating until Baby was a mess—cock shiny, hole slick, thighs trembling, begging in that quiet way that always undid Saint more than shouting ever could.

When Saint finally rose over him, Baby pulled him down into a kiss that tasted like salt and morning and everything they had survived.

Saint lined up and pushed in slow.

Baby's mouth opened against his. The stretch pulled a broken sound from both of them. Saint didn't thrust yet. He stayed buried, forehead to Baby's, breathing with him, letting Baby's body take him inch by inch until there was no space left.

"Look at me," Saint whispered.

Baby did.

Saint started to move.

Deep. Unhurried. The kind of fucking that wasn't about getting off first—it was about staying. Every roll of his hips was a promise. He kissed Baby through it. Kissed his cheek when a tear slipped free. Kissed the corner of his mouth when Baby gasped his name like a prayer.

"I will never leave you again," Saint said against his lips, driving in deeper. "Not in this house. Not on that ice. Not in this life."

Baby wrapped his legs around him and held on, meeting every thrust, nails in Saint's back, voice wrecked and sweet.

"Then stay. Stay inside me. Stay with me. Saint—please—"

Saint fucked him like that until the morning felt holy.

When Baby came, it was with Saint's name in his mouth and Saint's hand wrapped around him, stroking him through it while Saint kept moving, kept filling him, kept whispering I've got you, I've got you, I've got you.

Saint followed with a groan that sounded like surrender, buried to the hilt, spilling into him as the ocean light washed over both of them.

They didn't pull apart.

Saint stayed inside him, kissing the damp hair at Baby's temple, one hand spread over Baby's heart like he needed to feel it beat.

Outside, waves kept coming in.

Inside, Baby smiled against Saint's mouth, small and wrecked and sure.

"Good morning," he whispered.

Saint smiled back.

"The best one yet. Happy birthday, baby." Saint whispered.

Baby smiled, "The best one yet."

They showered together after, slow and quiet, the kind of washing that was more aftercare than necessity. Saint soaped Baby's shoulders with careful hands. Baby leaned into him under the spray, still soft from the morning, still smiling every time Saint kissed the wet hair at his temple.

"Happy birthday," Saint murmured again, like he couldn't say it enough.

Baby laughed under the water. "You already said that."

"I'll say it all day."

They dressed in easy clothes—linen shorts, loose shirts, bare feet on cool tile. The beach house smelled like salt and coffee Saint had started before the shower. For a few minutes it was only the two of them and the ocean, and Baby thought, this is enough.

Then the bell rang downstairs.

Baby frowned. "Did you order something?"

Saint's mouth did something suspiciously innocent. "Maybe."

Baby padded down the stairs, hair still damp, and pulled the front door open.

The world exploded.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

The whole pack of them was on the porch like they had been launched there. Cam and Takeshi blasted those tiny plastic birthday trumpets right in his face—preet-preet-PREET—already laughing so hard they could barely keep the notes going. Kai had a ridiculous balloon bouquet. Rode carried bags. Oliver had a cake box. Wong and Cassian were holding gift bags and trying not to drop them. Kora, of all people, stood at the back with sunglasses and a smug little wave.

Baby froze.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"What—how—no one knew where we—"

Cam blew the trumpet again, victorious. Takeshi followed, dancing in place.

"Surprise, birthday boy!" Cam sang.

Baby could have sworn no one on earth knew which stretch of coast he and Saint had disappeared to. This was supposed to be quiet. Private. Just them and the sea.

Then warmth settled at his back.

Saint's hands found his waist. His mouth brushed Baby's shoulder, a quiet kiss against still-damp skin.

"I told them," Saint whispered, smiling against him. "I didn't want your birthday to be boring."

Baby turned his head, stunned and already breaking into a helpless laugh.

"You—"

"I know." Saint kissed the side of his neck. "You're welcome."

The friends poured in before Baby could decide whether to scold him or kiss him. Cam tackled him in a hug. Takeshi jammed a paper crown onto his head. Kai announced that the cake was "structurally unsound but emotionally correct." Oliver started lining gifts on the kitchen island. Wong was already opening windows. Cassian asked where the coffee was like he lived there.

Baby stood in the middle of his secret vacation house, paper crown slipping sideways, Saint's arm still around him, and felt his chest go tight in the best way.

"You guys are insane," he said, voice thick.

"And you love us," Cam replied, trumpet still in his hand.

Baby looked at Saint. Saint only shrugged, fond and unrepentant.

"Happy birthday, Baby."

Baby leaned into him, laughing as the house filled with noise and people and the smell of salt and cake, and decided that maybe a boring birthday had never been the point at all.

"Hey! Cam you turn on this TV?!" Takeshi yelled, plopping down on Oliver's lap even when there was enough room for everyone.

"Be quiet!" Cam rolled his eyes.

"You're nkt so quiet, Cameron." Kai said, smirking.

Saint sighed and reached for the remote like it was nothing. The television flickered on—some quiet coastal channel, waves and weather, harmless.

"Uh, something interesting?" Takeshi groaned, slowkybrocking his hips on Oliver's thigh.

"Be still." Oliver grabbed his hip, keeping hij in place.

Takeshi sighed and stilled, staring the television.

Suddenly, the picture jumped.

The living room filled with another image of the same living room.

Saint, on one knee.

A ring in his hand.

Baby's breath left him all at once.

He spun around.

Saint was already there, behind him, down on one knee on the beach-house floor. The ring caught the morning light and threw it back in sharp, expensive sparks. Baby knew that kind of glitter. He knew what it cost. His hand flew to his mouth.

Saint chuckled, awkward and fond, and tipped his head toward the corner where Kai stood looking far too pleased with himself.

"He helped me connect the live feed to the TV," Saint said. "In case you missed it the first time."

Baby made a sound that wasn't a word. Tears were already gathering, slow and bright.

Saint's voice dropped. Soft. Steady. The same voice that had promised 'I'm not going anywhere' upstairs.

"You made me the best version of myself," he said. "I would walk through every hardship again—every fight, every secret, every night I almost lost you—if this was the ending waiting on the other side. I don't want a life that doesn't have you in it. I don't want a win that isn't yours too."

He lifted the ring a little higher.

"Baby Danvers… will you marry me?"

Baby's answer broke on a laugh and a sob at the same time.

"Yes." He nodded hard, tears slipping free. "Yes. Yes—Saint, yes."

Saint's hands were careful as he took Baby's left hand and slid the ring on. It fit like it had been waiting. Baby pulled him up immediately and kissed him, salty and shaking and sure, arms locked around Saint's neck like he might float away if he let go.

The house erupted.

Cam and Takeshi blasted the little birthday trumpets again, off-key and delighted. Kai whooped. Rode clapped once, then twice, then couldn't stop smiling. Oliver let out a low whistle. Wong and Cassian were already hugging each other like it was their proposal too.

Kora sighed from the single sofa, arms folded, watching them with an expression that was almost fond.

"Congratulations, Baby," she said. Then, because she was still Kora, she added, "You're only marrying Saint because I let you."

Baby laughed against Saint's mouth, watery and helpless, and didn't even argue.

Saint held him tighter, forehead to his, the ring cold and real between their joined hands, while the ocean kept breathing outside and their whole chaotic family filled the house with noise.

Some birthdays, it turned out, were not meant to be quiet at all.
\----
The wedding was held at dusk, on a cliff above the same ocean that had watched them sleep.

Skyfall’s glass pavilion had been rebuilt for the night into something softer—white silk, gold light, a ceiling of hanging glass that caught the last of the sun and threw it back like scattered stars. Billionaires filled the rows in black tie. Sponsors. Board members. The kind of people who usually only clapped for profit. Tonight they clapped for two men who had bled for a championship and then chosen each other anyway.

Sloane sat in the front with Jae’s hand in hers, midnight velvet and emerald silk, the ice queen looking almost human. Jae’s short hair caught the light when she smiled. Wong kept glancing over from the groomsmen’s side like he still couldn’t believe his sister was here as Sloane’s date and not as someone sneaking in through the service door.

Kai stood with Rode. Oliver had Takeshi anchored against his side, for once not climbing into anyone’s lap. Cam, Cassian, and Wong were a single warm knot of navy suits. Kora wore white that was not a wedding dress, on purpose, and sunglasses she refused to take off until the music started.

When it started, even she took them off.

Baby walked first.

Not because tradition said so. Because Saint had asked him to. I want to see you coming toward me, he had said. I spent too long watching you walk away.

Baby’s jacket was white and silver, the same light that had caught the cameras the night they won. The ring already on his finger flashed when he lifted his bouquet of white roses and sea grass. His eyes found Saint at the end of the aisle and did not leave him.

Saint was already crying.

Not much. Just enough that Cam, standing closest, had to look at the floor or he would have started too.

Saint’s vows were quiet. The microphone still caught every word.

“I almost lost you more times than a man should be allowed to. I signed a paper that wasn’t love. I let the world tell me what I was allowed to want. And still you stayed. You made me honest. You made me brave. If I get another lifetime, I want it with you. If I don’t, this one was enough—because it had you in it.”

Baby’s voice broke on the first sentence and steadied on the second.

“I used to think home was a place I had to earn. Then you looked at me like I was already there. I don’t need the ice. I don’t need the lights. I need the man who wakes up first and watches me sleep like I’m the only safe thing he’s ever been given. I will marry you in this life. I will find you in the next.”

When they kissed, the glass ceiling threw gold all over the room.

Cam and Takeshi did not blow the trumpets. For once, they only cried and laughed into each other’s shoulders.

Sloane’s hand tightened around Jae’s.

Kora, in the second row, whispered to no one, “I let him,” and then wiped her face like it was nothing.

\---

Later, when the speeches were done and the champagne had gone warm in forgotten glasses, the night thinned out.

Saint and Baby stood alone on the terrace, jackets undone, the ocean black and endless below them. Behind the glass, their family was still dancing badly. Kai had Rode by the waist. Oliver was pretending not to smile while Takeshi stole cake. Cam was asleep on Cassian’s shoulder. Wong had an arm around both of them. Sloane and Jae were a quiet silhouette near the far windows, two people who had taken the long way to kindness.

Baby leaned into Saint’s chest.

“Do you think we made it?” he asked.

Saint kissed his hair. The ring on Baby’s hand caught one last piece of light.

“We didn’t just make it,” he said. “We built a life out of the wreckage and then we invited everyone we love to sit in it.”

Baby closed his eyes.

He thought of a hallway and a slammed door. A kitchen on fire. A rink at 2–1. A cabin in a storm. A sofa too small for three. A paper crown. A burner phone that turned out to be mercy. A morning that started with Saint’s mouth and ended with a yes.

He thought of how many times the story could have ended ugly.

It hadn’t.

“Good,” Baby whispered. “Then I can rest.”

Saint held him while the tide kept coming in, the way it always had, the way it always would—indifferent to trophies, to villains, to vows.

But not indifferent to this:

Two men on a cliff, married, still choosing each other in the quiet after the noise.

If anyone asked them years later what the championship had been for, they would not talk about the scoreboard.

They would talk about a beach house.

A birthday.

A ring that caught the light.

And a boy who used to think he was only ever someone else’s almost—finally, finally, someone’s always.