12 - Things We Don't Say

Feet pounded down the stairs.

Camden was first, socks half-on and hair sticking up like he’d been licked by static. “I want pancakes with no crunchy bits!” he shouted before even reaching the kitchen.

“There were never crunchy bits,” Sebastian said from the counter, his voice smooth but sleep-roughened, already awake in the quiet way he always was—whole body present, even when his eyes still held dreams.

He plated warm, golden pancakes onto a foil-lined tray, movements precise and practiced. Behind him, the scent of browned butter mixed with the delicate hum of lavender that clung to him—clean, soft, and familiar, curling through the kitchen like a second breath of morning.

“Yeah-huh,” Camden insisted. “Last time there was a black crunchy thing.”

“That was the edge,” Caleb added, trudging behind him with one sock off, one sock on, dragging his open backpack like it had done him personal harm. “Crunchy edge.”

Sebastian turned slightly, his profile catching the early light—the curve of his jaw, the soft swell of his lower lip.

He flipped the lid on a tiny syrup container with a soft click.

“Well, guess what? These pancakes are fluffy and non-crunchy. But only people with socks on both feet get syrup.”

Camden gasped like it was a death sentence and immediately spun around, thundering back upstairs. “I need my other sock!”

The kitchen buzzed with the layered intimacy of morning: the hiss of syrup warming on the stove, the soft clatter of cutlery, the shift of light stretching over pale fields. The smell of maple and butter was rich, but underneath it—beneath everything—was Ezra.

Sandalwood and spice. Tangled in the steam, thick in the air. It hit Sebastian in waves, quiet but insistent. Alpha scent, sharp-edged and grounding, pushing against his skin in a way that made his breath catch.

Ezra sat in his usual spot at the table, coffee in hand, elbows braced like armor. He wasn’t reading his phone. Just holding it. Staring. Like if he moved, something might shatter.

Sebastian hadn’t greeted him when he came down—he’d only nodded. Muted. Civil. The way strangers might.

Ezra hadn’t looked at him either. But his scent had thickened in the room the moment Sebastian entered, even before either of them spoke.

Sebastian didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t ask why last night had felt like a tether between them had finally pulled taut—Ezra’s body hovering close in the hallway, hands almost touching, breath caught at Sebastian’s neck—only for him to go stiff and silent again the moment the sun came up.

He didn’t ask because he couldn’t bear to hear Ezra dismiss it again.

“Miss Tori said maybe real frogs,” Caleb said, peeling the edge of his placemat up with sticky fingers. “In cups. With holes.”

Sebastian crouched beside him, zipping up the forgotten backpack. The fabric clung with syrup—or something. Possibly mystery.

“If she survives you two, she’s a superhero.”

“I’m not even bad!” Caleb insisted. “I don’t even roar in class.”

“You roared at lunch yesterday,” Camden reported, skidding back into the kitchen, now fully socked. He caught himself on the table edge. “Only a little roar!”

“It was a T-Rex roar,” Caleb clarified. “A big one.”

“No, it was like a baby dino. Like, ‘rawrrr!’”

“It was majestic!” Camden declared, chin up.

Sebastian laughed softly, smoothing Camden’s unruly curls down. His fingers lingered for a second longer than they needed to, a gesture halfway between affection and distraction.

He could feel Ezra’s eyes now. Not directly—Ezra still hadn’t looked up—but Sebastian knew when he was being watched. Felt it like static at the base of his spine.

“Sounds like an educational experience,” he said, voice lighter than he felt.

Behind him, Ezra’s scent deepened.

Tense.

Resistant.

Wanting.

Sebastian moved quickly, slipping into the rhythm of tasks. Forks stacked, water bottles checked. Syrup sealed. Hands clean but tingling. And still Ezra hadn’t said a word.

Last night, Sebastian had fallen asleep with the twins on either side of him—Caleb tucked against his shoulder, Camden curled into his side.

When he’d stirred in the middle of the night, it had been to the barest brush of fingers through his curls. So soft it might’ve been a dream. So careful it hurt.

And now?

Now Ezra couldn’t even look him in the eye.

Then Mia descended like morning judgment, polished and perfect in a world of crumbs and maple syrup. Nails painted, jeans crisp. She had one earbud in, and that familiar expression of aloof teenage superiority.

“Are we doing the chaos thing again?” she asked, grabbing the counter for balance as she reached for toast. “I love the chaos thing.”

She picked the crispiest slice, buttered it without looking, then folded it into a napkin like a signature move.

“It’s giving… unmedicated sitcom family,” she added, bone dry.

Caleb blinked at her. “You don’t eat pancakes?”

“I have a face to maintain,” Mia replied. “Also, carbs.”

“Carbs make your face shiny?” Camden asked suspiciously.

“Yes,” Sebastian said, flatly, sealing lunchboxes. “Deadly shiny. Beware the pancake glow.”

The toaster dinged. A gust rattled the windows. The neighbor’s dog barked. Somewhere in the garage, the radio Ezra had left on played faintly—a ghost of music under the noise.

Sebastian moved like a clock wound too tight. Toast. Napkins. Ziplocks. Slide, seal, move. He didn’t look back. He didn’t ask Ezra what last night had meant. He didn’t beg for clarity.

But his scent—his lavender bloom—was restless.

Ezra’s had thickened too, a touch more than before. Edging from restraint into something darker. Like longing kept under lock.

And then Mia, with surgical precision, threw her blade.

“Wow. You guys are worse than divorced parents.”

The silence cracked like old ice.

Ezra didn’t react—not right away. Just took a slow sip of coffee, like the mug was anchoring him. His grip white-knuckled.

Caleb blinked between them. “What’s divorced?”

“It’s when two people used to like each other and now they fight over the dog,” Mia said, casual. “Except you guys don’t even have a dog.”

Sebastian’s hand stalled over Caleb’s zipper. A beat too long. Just long enough to feel the heat in the room twist.

Then Ezra said it—low, sharp, final:

“We’re not anything.”

Not regretful.

Not confused.

Just brutal.

Sebastian felt it hit deep. Pheromones flared and twisted in his chest like something wounded. Ezra’s words cut through the scent haze, slicing through the fragile tension that had built all morning.

He swallowed it. Held himself still. No visible crack.

Just placed the bag gently by the door.

Don’t react. Don’t let the scent spill over. Don’t let him know how much it stung.

Mia raised a brow, watching. “I’ll be in the car,” she said, grabbing her bag. “Can someone make sure the dinosaurs brush their teeth?”

Sebastian nodded, jaw tight.

She paused briefly by the door. Glanced back at him. The look she gave him wasn’t pity. It was something sharper. Sadder. But she didn’t say anything, just disappeared into the pale morning.

Camden crept up beside him and tugged at his sleeve. “Are you sad?” he whispered. “You look like my stuffy when it gets wet.”

Sebastian blinked. His throat tightened.

“Nah, buddy,” he said softly, smiling with the corners of his mouth. “Just sleepy.”

Caleb wrapped around his legs, warm and sure. “We like you. Even if you’re sleepy.”

Sebastian crouched and pulled them both in, holding them a little too tight. Just a second longer than he should’ve. Their small bodies grounded him. Reminded him what mattered.

“That’s a relief.”

Behind them, Ezra stood. His mug was empty. His shoulders tense beneath the worn stretch of his shirt. He looked at the boys—and then, finally, at Sebastian.

Their eyes met.

And something passed between them.

Not anger.

Not indifference.

Something bare and unspoken. A want. A regret. A wish.

Ezra opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

And Sebastian didn’t ask him to try again.