37 - Lavender & Smoke

Sebastian rose.

Slow. Purposeful.

The faintest hint of lavender wafted around him, soft and intoxicating, wrapping Ezra’s senses before Sebastian even touched the dryer.

He turned it off, the quiet hum cutting out, leaving only the scent and the silence.

His shorts slipped to the floor in one graceful motion, the fabric whispering against the wood.

He climbed onto the machine with the same calm certainty he used when soothing a child mid-meltdown—only now, his fingers trembled slightly as they braced the edge.

Legs parted openly, unashamed, the scent of lavender growing stronger, warmer, sinking deep into Ezra’s skin, unspooling something raw and unfamiliar.

Ezra stood between them, sweatpants already pooled at his ankles, but it was the sharp, spicy undercurrent of his own sandalwood and spice scent mixing with Sebastian’s gentle lavender that set the air electric.

Sebastian reached for him—not the waist, where the scent was strongest—but lower. His fingers wrapped around Ezra, bold and unapologetic, a silent claiming woven in the delicate power of his touch.

Ezra’s breath hitched sharply, a sharp, involuntary intake—more than just physical. The subtle pull of Sebastian’s pheromones tangled with the heat between them, stirring something deep and unspoken.

“Seb,” Ezra muttered, half warning, half wanting, his voice rough with tension he couldn’t name.

Sebastian didn’t flinch. Instead, he guided him forward, steady and sure, until Ezra sank inside—bare, slow, and deep surrounded by the intoxicating scent that clung to Sebastian like a second skin.

Sebastian’s head fell back against the wall, a soft groan tearing from his chest. It wasn’t just pleasure, there was something more primal in the sound, as if every nerve was alight with raw, aching need.

The lavender clung to Ezra’s nostrils, pulling him closer still, wrapping him in Sebastian’s quiet surrender.

Ezra moved slow, hands braced on Sebastian’s hips, scent mixing thickly with sweat and desire.

“Harder,” came the whisper, barely audible, breath trembling, lips parted.

Ezra hesitated, caught between concern and a pull he didn’t fully understand. His hands slid to Sebastian’s thighs. “You’ll be sore in the morning,” he murmured, voice rough with something tender.

Sebastian laughed—a sharp, breathless sound that cut the room like glass. “That’s none of your business.”

Ezra didn’t answer. Instead, his grip tightened, spreading Sebastian’s thighs wider.

Pants tugged at Ezra’s ankles as he moved deeper inside Sebastian, who used two fingers to spread himself wider. His dark eyes locked on Ezra’s, fierce and hungry.

Ezra bit his lip. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Sebastian cocked his head, a playful scowl curling his lips. “Like what?”

“Like you want to stab me.”

Sebastian laughed, breath warm and sweet on Ezra’s skin. “I want to stab you so badly… but you fuck me so good I can’t pass it up. You inside me like this makes me want to keep you here all day.”

Ezra smiled despite himself. “Is that what’s keeping me alive right now?”

Sebastian pulled him closer by the waist. “Yes.”

A moan slipped out. “Right there, Alpha. Keep doing that.”

Ezra chuckled softly, thrusting deeper. The wet sounds of skin meeting skin filled the air, mixed with Sebastian’s gasps and soft moans.

“Feels like I’m being used,” Ezra teased.

Sebastian rolled his eyes, breath warm and sweet on Ezra’s skin but said nothing.

"Right there?" Ezra asked softly, pressing against that sweet spot Sebastian liked.

"Mhm-mhn," Sebastian moaned biting on his lower lip.

Sebastian’s eyes glossed over, far away yet still flickering with awareness. His body softened, spreading wider, inviting, but not quite surrendering.

His breath hitched—plaint, shallow and his eyelids drooped halfway, caught between wanting to give in and holding himself steady.

Ezra’s gaze sharpened, reading every tremble, every hesitation. Slowly, deliberately, he slid his thumb into Sebastian’s parted lips. The soft, wet suction sent a shiver down both their spines.

Sebastian made small, desperate noises—whimpers, breathy sighs but no words. His hands tightened on Ezra’s shoulders.

Ezra pulled back just a fraction, voice low and husky. “Not yet, Omega. Stay with me.”

The mingling scents of lavender and sandalwood hung heavy in the air, thickening the tension like a storm about to break.

Ezra pressed forward again, just enough—teasing, commanding but careful. Because he knew if he pushed any further, Sebastian would slip completely under, lost to the heat and surrender.

The room filled with the sound of skin, breath, heat. The dryer rocked gently beneath them.

By morning, the house was filled with distant laughter, the clink of cereal bowls, cartoons humming faintly in the background.

Sebastian had showered. Pulled on soft cotton and silence.

Ezra had made toast for the twins and passed Mia her tea like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t come undone between Sebastian’s legs the night before.

Clara stalked through the house like smoke, the faint, sharp tang of her beta pheromones trailing behind her. Every time she passed Sebastian in the hallway or the kitchen, she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

“Slut.”

“Whore.”

“Doesn’t even hide it.”

Sebastian didn’t flinch. His lavender scent—soft, powdery, calm—wrapped gently around the twins’ sandalwood undertones and Mia’s bright citrus. He hummed while cutting up bananas. Smiled while pouring orange juice. He didn’t give her a reaction—and that, somehow, infuriated her more.

That afternoon, they walked to the Atwells’ backyard for a neighborly barbecue.

Jonathan was by the grill, shirt off, spatula in hand, flipping lemon-pepper catfish like a man born for it.

The twins and the other kids chased each other through bubbles, shrieking with joy. Mia curled under a tree with her book, her citrusy scent faint but steady.

Mrs. Finch nursed a whiskey-laced lemonade and muttered prayers for patience.

Sebastian kept to the side, plate in hand, until Clara’s voice cut through the chatter like acid.

“This neighborhood’s… cute. I’m Ezra’s girlfriend,” she announced to the cluster of people by the picnic table. “We’re expecting. It’s early, of course.”

Ezra, standing near the drinks, didn’t look up. “Ex,” he said, casually. “She’s my ex.”

Clara’s smile froze.

Rachel Atwell tilted her head. “Oh, but you’re still living together?”

“No,” Sebastian replied before Ezra could. Calm. Pleasant. “She’s a guest.”

Rachel’s gaze slid over Sebastian like she was picking lint off his soul.

“So, Sebastian… do you work? Or is folding Ezra’s shirts your full-time job?”

Sebastian smiled—warm and sharp. “I’m a licensed child psychologist. But today? I’m just making sure your pups don’t bully mine.”

Kiran Naidoo choked on his drink. Priya didn’t even try to hide her grin.

The Moreno twins stared at each other like they were waiting for someone to yell “cut.”

Mrs. Finch sighed. “I just want to enjoy my catfish in peace. Keep your soap opera outta my lemonade.”

Later in the evening, Ezra ducked out to the supermarket.

Clara had suddenly remembered she needed “essentials.” Something about vitamins. Hair serum. Who the hell knew.

Back at home, Sebastian was upstairs with the twins, trying to coax them into pajamas. Their laughter echoed off the old walls, a song in this strange, half-built home.

Then yelling.

He heard Clara’s voice before he saw her.

“You think this is funny? Cold tea? What kind of idiot gives someone cold tea?”

Sebastian descended the stairs.

Mia’s fingers tightened around the ceramic. Her lips pressed together—tight, trembling from holding back. But she said nothing.

Clara stepped closer, scent sharp, biting—a beta’s dominance laced with cruel delight. “Figures. Stupid brat. Dumb orphan. Weak little omega.”

Sebastian walked in, still holding one of the twins’ shirts. The boys padded after him in socked feet.

He stepped forward slowly, voice even. “Clara. Stop talking to my daughter like that.”

Clara laughed. Mean and shrill. “Your daughter? Please. You’re not even their blood. You’re just some pathetic little toy Ezra’s screwing.”

Her eyes flicked to Mia, then back to Sebastian. “You and that omega girl both. Sniff all you want, but you smell like desperation and fear. Ezra would sell Mia off tomorrow without a second thought. Just a fragile omega to pawn.”

Sebastian’s lavender scent deepened with a hint of sandalwood, protective and fierce. His body tensed like a coiled spring.

“You should go,” Sebastian said, calmly, but his hands had curled into fists at his sides.

Clara stepped into his space, her beta pheromones sharp and overbearing. “Whore,” she spat.

"You think this makes you special? You’re just convenient. A weak little omega. A pussy to wet Ezra's dick until he’s bored.”

Sebastian blinked slow. “Jealousy’s a hell of a drug. Also, a gay whore is better than a pregnant whore.”

Clara slapped him.

The sound cracked through the room.

Sebastian didn’t move.

But Mia did.

She was on her feet in an instant, hand flying before anyone could speak. Her palm met Clara’s cheek with a sharp smack.

Clara reeled back, shocked. “You little—!”

“Touch him again,” Mia growled, voice shaking but fierce. “I dare you.”

Sebastian blinked, then turned to her slowly.

“Mia,” he said, voice flat—but soft enough to cushion the weight of the moment. “What did I say about hitting people?”

Her chin lifted stubbornly, though her jaw trembled. “That it’s impolite.”

Sebastian nodded, expression unreadable. “And unnecessary.”

“But she—” Mia started, her voice cracking like a matchstick under strain.

“I know, baby,” he said gently, sighing. “I know.”

Ezra walked in then—keys still in one hand, grocery bag in the other, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud that felt too final.

His eyes swept the room like a reflex honed by years of putting out fires.

Clara, pale and rigid, held one hand to her face like a stunned socialite.

Mia stood in the center of the room, fists balled at her sides, chest rising and falling like she’d just sprinted through a war zone.

Sebastian was tense beside her, not touching her, but his body angled protectively toward her like a shield.

The twins hovered by the couch—Camden clutching the hem of Sebastian’s hoodie, his small fingers tight and white-knuckled.

Caleb had his thumb in his mouth, shame prickling his little brow even as he tried to look brave.

They didn’t speak, but fear clung to them like the thick scent of smoke after something had burned.

Ezra exhaled. Long. Tired. Bone-deep.

The kind of sigh that started somewhere beneath his ribs and dragged everything in him with it.

He set the bag down on the table, careful.

The clink of glass, the soft rustle of plastic—all of it sounded like it didn’t belong in the thick tension of the room.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, voice low.

Not angry—just tired.

Like the answer would only add weight to everything else he was already carrying.