17 - The Taste Of Regret

Ezra’s tires crunched over gravel as he pulled into the driveway, his vision hazy with lack of sleep and too many thoughts clawing at his skull like wild animals.

The silence in the cab of his truck pressed in on him, thick and punishing after the twins’ tearful goodbyes and Mia’s glacial stare.

He’d called Sebastian—twice. Then five more times. Texted. Nothing. No read receipts. No response. Not even a single “Leave me alone.”

Desperation had driven him to Sebastian’s workplace, faking casual concern—“Hey, is Sebastian in today?”—only to be met with the receptionist’s tight-lipped reply: Sebastian had called in sick.

Ezra barely managed a nod before he walked out, throat cinched with something sharp and awful. He gripped the steering wheel like it might anchor him. It felt like ice.

Instead of heading to the job site, he thumbed out a text to his boss:

Not coming in today. Sorry.

Then he drove home, like something in him was pulling him there.

But the moment he stepped out of the truck, something hit him.

Not a sound.

A scent.

Sweet. Spiced. Warm.

Lavender.

And cinnamon. Butter. Yeast.

Ezra blinked, his feet halting on the gravel. “Cinnamon rolls?” he muttered, staring at the house like it had grown new windows and a heartbeat.

No one should’ve been home.

Unless—

He bounded up the steps two at a time and threw the front door open.

Then froze.

The wreckage from that morning—the cereal under the table, Mia’s jacket slung over the banister, the twins’ half-finished breakfasts—was gone.

The house gleamed. The air hummed with warmth. And the scent—

It curled inside him like smoke, like memory. That lavender: Sebastian’s scent, amplified now, sharper, headier. It licked at Ezra’s skin, curled under his collar, swam through his veins.

And there he was.

Standing at the kitchen table in faded jeans and a slouchy sweatshirt, sleeves shoved up, hands scrubbing at the wood like it had wronged him.

Sebastian didn’t look up.

“I thought leaving would punish you,” he said, voice low and distant. “You know.”

Ezra’s throat tightened.

Sebastian looked up then, eyes dull and shadowed, his mouth a tired line. “But it wouldn’t. It’d just hurt the kids. And they’ve had enough of that.”

His fingers moved in slow circles over the table. “So I came back. To clean up the mess you left. Like always.”

Ezra stepped forward, but his boots felt like anchors.

Lavender clung to the air like static, thick with pheromones. Ezra’s nostrils flared, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. His blood ran hot, thick, the scent lighting a fuse under his skin.

Sebastian turned slightly, the slope of his waist exposed by the way his sweatshirt clung. Ezra’s eyes dragged over the small, arched curve, something primal stirring in his gut.

“You can keep acting like the emotionally constipated gremlin you are,” Sebastian added bitterly.

Ezra didn’t think.

He moved.

Two strides, and he was across the room. His arms wrapped around Sebastian’s waist, pulling him in tight, chest to chest. He breathed him in, deep—lavender, sugar, heat—and Sebastian gasped, the rag slipping from his fingers.

Ezra’s mouth crashed into his.

It was desperate. Ferocious. Tongue, teeth, breath. He kissed like a starving man who’d just discovered the feast had always been waiting at his door.

Sebastian’s hands were caught between them, rigid with shock, but then—slowly—his fingers curled over Ezra’s shoulders, gripping tight, grounding.

Ezra groaned against his lips, swallowing the taste of cinnamon and the faint, wild buzz of Sebastian’s pheromones. It made him dizzy. High.

When they broke apart, panting, foreheads pressed close, Ezra rasped, “I’m not gay.”

Sebastian blinked, stunned, breath still shaking in his lungs.

Then he laughed—sharp and disbelieving. “You just kissed me, Ezra.”

“It doesn’t mean anything. I just—” Ezra faltered.

Sebastian’s hand moved down. Lower.

And then—he gripped Ezra’s cock through his jeans. Tight. Deliberate.

Ezra jerked, hips thrusting involuntarily, his eyes slamming shut as a guttural sound tore from his throat.

“Doesn’t mean anything?” Sebastian asked, voice a velvet threat. His palm rubbed slow and firm, his scent now drenched with arousal—an intoxicating cocktail of Omega heat and spice.

Ezra rocked into the touch, helpless.

“Stop,” he whispered, even as his fingers dug into Sebastian’s waist. His mouth was hot and dry. “Please—”

Sebastian didn’t move. His grip only tightened.

“Say it again,” he said softly. “Tell me this means nothing. While you’re hard for me. While your scent’s all over me.”

Ezra groaned, forehead falling against Sebastian’s. “I’m not in love with you. I just… don’t know how to breathe when you’re not there."

Sebastian scoffed as Ezra continued. "I was a jerk. I said awful shit. I blamed you. Pushed you.”

Sebastian’s hand stilled.

Ezra’s voice cracked. “I was scared. Of what it meant. Of how you make me feel.”

He stepped back just enough to look into Sebastian’s eyes, the truth stripped raw.

“I’m sorry. For all of it. For calling you manipulative. For last night. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Sebastian’s jaw twitched.

“I was stupid,” Ezra murmured. “But if you’ll let me, I want to invite you into my bed.”

Sebastian stared at him. His eyes glittered. “Are you sure,” he said carefully, “you’re not gay?”

Ezra shook his head. “I’m not gay. I’ll never be gay.”

Sebastian looked down, then up again. “But you want to sleep with me.”

“I want you.”

Sebastian exhaled, the tension in his shoulders twitching. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“Probably,” Ezra said, voice hoarse.

Then—Sebastian let go.

He took a single step back. Watched Ezra. And slowly, like a declaration,

“Beg,” he said.

Ezra blinked.

“What?”

“Beg,” Sebastian repeated, soft but laced with command. “You want me? Prove it.”

Ezra stared.

And then—he moved.

Dropped to his knees.

“Please,” he said, voice gravelly, eyes upturned.

Sebastian stepped closer, sliding a hand into Ezra’s hair, gripping tight.

Ezra shivered under the touch, breath catching in his throat. He rested trembling hands on Sebastian’s hips, his scent now spiked and Alpha-drenched—spice and sandalwood and desire.

“I need you,” Ezra whispered. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know I need you.”

Sebastian’s thumb brushed Ezra’s cheek, his other hand still buried in his hair.

“God,” he muttered, “you’re such a mess.”

Ezra nodded, exhaling shakily. “Yes. I am.”

Silence hung. Heavy. Breathless.

Then—Sebastian yanked him up, and their mouths met again in a clash of teeth and longing. Ezra grunted, his hands flattening against Sebastian’s back, dragging him close like he’d die without it.

Behind them, the cinnamon rolls cooled on the counter. Forgotten.

They didn’t make it upstairs. Not right away.

And when they did—

Sebastian still made him beg.