Warlock - Jericho's Boys #5 - ch. 4 (Patreon)

Jordan

Jordan was so happy he was legitimately worried his heart might pop like a champagne cork. It would be such a massive downer if he just dropped dead on the spot from happiness.

Still, he let out a quiet breath, trying very hard not to spin in a circle like a cartoon princess in the middle of a pet store. He was being ridiculous. He knew that. Painfully aware of it, actually.

But still…

Normally, his rational brain would pop up like a devil on his shoulder, ready to remind him that they were just two people buying a litter box and cat food—not planning a wedding. But the angel on his shoulder had that naysayer bound and gagged, allowing Jordan’s imagination to run wild.

Stay delusional.

Yeah. That was his new life motto.

The second they stepped into the big-box pet store, the energy shifted. Jordan felt it before he even really saw it—the subtle pause, the way conversations dipped, the faint squeak of a cart wheel slowing somewhere behind them. All eyes were on them.

Jordan didn’t blame them.

Cree had presence. That was what people called it, right? When a whole room seemed to tilt in someone’s direction without them even trying? Main character energy. He was tall and broad and beautiful in a way that was usually reserved for A-list celebrities and marble statues. 

Even under fluorescent lighting, he looked unreal.

“Do people always stop and stare when you walk into a room?” Jordan whispered, forcing a smile so it wouldn’t sound like insecurity.

Cree frowned. “They’re looking at you, not me, rockstar.”

Jordan snorted softly. “I assure you, they’re not.”

Nobody looked at him unless he was on stage—and right now, after getting his ass handed to him and spending a night in jail, he probably looked like he’d been dragged behind a school bus.

Still…his chest warmed anyway.

Because Cree thought that.

“Well, I’m looking at you,” Cree said, like it was obvious. Like there was no version of reality where he wouldn’t be.

Jordan’s face went hot.

“Good,” he murmured, dropping his gaze before he could embarrass himself further.

He tried to play it cool, even though his brain was already spiraling into worst-case scenarios—everyone around them quietly wondering what someone like him was doing with someone like Cree.

He jerked his chin toward the carts. “Grab one?”

Cree didn’t hesitate. No teasing, no comment—just turned and went.

Jordan’s heart did something stupid at that, tripping over itself at how easy that had been. How easy Cree made everything feel. When Cree came back with the cart, Jordan carefully handed him the two kittens.

Cree frowned once more, this time in confusion.

Jordan gave him an apologetic smile, then climbed into the basket, before reaching for the kittens. Cree gave him an indulgent smile, like Jordan was cute and not at all silly, then watched—with what Jordan could only pray was fondness—as the two babies settled into his lap to snooze. 

Cree huffed out a quiet laugh, something soft and indulgent in it, like he found Jordan more endearing than ridiculous.

Jordan gathered the kittens into his lap, immediately rewarded with tiny, warm bodies curling into him, their soft purring vibrating faintly against his thighs.

He flipped the child seat down so he could lean back against the side of the cart closest to Cree, grounding himself in the solid metal and the faint hum of the store around them—distant barking from the grooming area, the rustle of bags being stocked, the sharp, clean smell of pet shampoo lingering in the air.

If he didn’t look at Cree, maybe he could get a grip.

Maybe.

He stared straight ahead, focusing very hard on a display of cat toys he wasn’t actually seeing.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

Because a second later, Cree’s hand was there—warm, steady—sliding under his chin and tilting his head back.

Jordan blinked, suddenly upside down, the world shifting as his gaze locked onto Cree’s.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

Hard. Fast. Completely out of sync.

Cree leaned in, slow and deliberate, until there was barely an inch between them.

Jordan could feel his breath now. Could see every tiny detail of his face up close.

“You always look like you’re up to something,” Cree murmured, his voice low enough that it seemed to settle right under Jordan’s skin.

Jordan batted his long lashes at him. “Who, me?” he asked innocently.

Cree huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re just reeling me in, aren’t you?”

Jordan’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. They were close enough to kiss—close enough that he could feel the warmth of Cree’s breath ghosting over his lips, could see the faint curve of his mouth when he spoke. He was almost certain he was having a heart attack.

“Am I?” he asked, breathless.

“Mm hm,” Cree said, sounding amused.

Did he see the effect he had on him? Did he like it? Did he find him cute or think he was pathetic? No, Cree wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t do that to him.

Would he?

No. Everyone loved Cree, and he’d been nothing but painfully honest with Jordan from the moment they met. Blunt in a way that should’ve been grounding instead of…this.

It should have made Jordan feel safe, but instead it stirred up something frantic and electric in his chest—like he was standing too close to something fragile and rare, something he wasn’t supposed to have, and it could slip through his fingers at any second.

God, he was such a headcase.

He and Matty really were two halves of the same coin. Matty pushed people away before they could get close enough to hurt him, and Jordan—

Jordan clung.

Dug in. Held on too tight, too fast, like if he didn’t, everything would disappear. No wonder people found him annoying. 

Cree’s lips brushed his forehead, soft and fleeting, pulling him clean out of his spiral. Then he stepped back, just like that, straightening up like nothing had happened.

Like Jordan hadn’t just short-circuited.

Jordan bit his lip, glancing past him at the two cashiers, who were openly staring now, eyes wide like they’d just witnessed a live-action K-drama moment.

Maybe they had. It felt like they had.

Jordan would give anything to be the other lead in a romance between him and Cree. To be the one who got the soft looks, the quiet touches, the inevitable happy ending.

His cheeks burned, heat creeping all the way down his neck, and he was suddenly very grateful Cree couldn’t read minds, because—

Jesus.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he losing it over a guy like this? He’d never been this person before. But something about Cree made him want to latch on. Made something sharp and possessive flicker under his skin, something that wanted to stay right here, in this moment, and not let go.

Would that freak Cree out?

Of course it would.

Calm down, you psycho.

Jordan forced himself to turn, twisting in the cart just as Cree pushed them around the corner into the first aisle.

Which meant he got a perfect view of the adorably bewildered look on Cree’s face as he glanced up at the hanging signs, trying to orient himself.

It did something stupid to Jordan’s chest.

“What do cats need exactly?”

“Not a pet person?” Jordan asked, pulling up the list he’d found online, thumb hovering over the screen longer than necessary as he tried to steady himself.

“I like animals,” Cree said, almost guiltily, like Jordan might assume he secretly kicked puppies. “My friends have five cats between the four of them, but I never thought to ask how to keep them alive.” He glanced back at him. “You?”

Jordan smiled, shaking his head. “I love animals, but my mother loathes them, if that tells you anything about the kind of person she is.” He huffed softly. “She’d rather eat her diamond tennis bracelet with a knife and fork than have an animal in her house.”

He paused, then added, quieter, “She says they’re…unclean.”

He said it exactly the way she would—sharp, clipped, her voice echoing in his head, dripping with the same cold disdain he’d grown up with.

Cree huffed out another laugh. “She seems nice.”

Jordan snickered, the sound softer this time, a little more genuine.

Cree looked a little shy over making Jordan laugh—a subtle shift, like he wasn’t used to being the one chasing the reaction instead of causing it without trying—or maybe Jordan really was delusional.

“What’s first on the list?”

“Cat food,” he cooed, holding the sleepy kittens to his face, rubbing their soft fur against his skin like a complete lunatic. Their tiny bodies were warm and impossibly soft, faint purrs vibrating against his cheek. “But the kind for babies. The grown-up stuff can upset their tummies.”

Cree steered them into the aisle, and they spent a solid five minutes bickering over canned kitten food versus dry, their voices low but animated, the debate growing increasingly heated until Cree leaned into his space again.

Too close.

Always too close.

It stole the air right out of Jordan’s lungs.

“That’s not fair,” Jordan whispered. “You can’t just use your hotness against me.”

Cree blinked, genuinely confused for a second, then grinned, flashing those stupidly perfect white teeth. “That’s not what I was doing.”

His bottom two front teeth overlapped just slightly—a tiny imperfection that should’ve ruined the symmetry of his face but somehow only made it worse. Better. More real. More unfair.

“Liar.”

Cree lifted his hand, curling his finger in a come-here motion.

Jordan leaned in immediately, like he’d been waiting for the command.

Cree reached out, idly playing with one of the curls that had fallen across Jordan’s forehead, the light tug sending a weird, electric sensation down his spine.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Cree murmured, “that you have the same effect on me?”

Jordan blinked.

No.

Absolutely not.

Not even remotely.

The idea was so ridiculous it almost made him laugh.

“No,” he said honestly.

“Get your fancy kitten food, rockstar. My treat.”

The way he said it—

God.

It didn’t just land. It hit.

His voice was warm and low, the sound of it sinking into Jordan’s skin, reverberating through him like someone had struck a tuning fork at the base of his skull.

It lingered. Buzzed. Refused to let go.

Jordan shivered.

When Cree straightened back up to his full height, the pressure eased just enough for Jordan to breathe again. Barely. What would happen when he finally kissed him? Or worse—worse? better?—when he had him in his bed?

Jordan would die. Flat out. End scene. Probably still technically a virgin, which would be both tragic and deeply on brand.

Guys had never really interested him before. No one had, if he was being honest. And then Cree had just…shown up. Like Jordan had been waiting for him without realizing it.

Fuck. He was losing it. Completely gone.

He blinked when he heard Cree laugh softly. “What?”

“You look like you’re having an actual argument with yourself.”

“I am,” Jordan admitted.

Cree raised a brow. “About what?”

Jordan shook his head quickly, not even close to ready to humiliate himself with that level of honesty.

“Have you ever had any pets?” he asked instead, pivoting hard.

Cree went quiet.

For a second.

Then he shook his head. “I never wanted one.”

Jordan gasped, then looked up at him, catching the slight frown pulling at Cree’s mouth. “I thought you said you liked animals. Did your parents not let you have them?”

Cree didn’t answer right away.

The shift was subtle but immediate—the air between them tightening, something heavier settling in where the teasing had been.

Then, quieter, he said, “I didn’t want to bring one into a house where the people who raised me could use them as a weapon against me.”

Jordan stilled.

The words landed hard, sharp enough to cut through every spiraling thought in his head.

The people who raised me.

Not my parents. Not my family.

Something in Jordan’s chest twisted. It wasn’t said with any raw emotion. It was matter-of-fact. Flat in a way that felt practiced. Just something that had happened to him, not a wound he actively bled from.

Or at least…not one he showed.

Cree was so strong. So steady.

What would it be like to not carry your childhood around like a weight strapped to your back? To not feel it dragging behind every thought, every reaction, every relationship?

“What were they like?” Jordan blurted. “Your par—the people who adopted you, I mean?” he corrected quickly, wincing at himself. Cree pushed the cart into the next aisle, the wheels rattling softly over the seam in the tile. “I know they were horrible, but were they ever nice to you, or was your childhood just…all horrible?”

The idea of Cree growing up abused and neglected made something in Jordan’s chest twist painfully tight.

What had he looked like back then? Was he just a smaller version of himself—broad shoulders waiting to happen, quiet and watchful? Or had he been soft? Round-faced? Awkward? Had he gone through a weird, gangly phase like everyone else, all limbs and no coordination?

Or had he always been this…composed? This controlled?

Once more, Cree paused.

He always chose his words so carefully, like every sentence was curated for each person. Was that their fault too? What did it take for a child to grow up to be so cautious with their words? Maybe Jordan was reading too much into it. But that is just how he was. 

Always overthinking.

“I’m sure they thought they were,” Cree said finally. “But they never gave me anything that didn’t come with an emotional price tag.” His voice stayed even, but there was something under it now. Not anger. Not quite. “They wrapped their abuse in self-righteousness and Bible verses, picking and choosing whatever suited them.”

Jordan swallowed.

“They’d twist everything,” Cree continued, gaze scanning the shelves without really seeing them. “Every word. Every situation. Until somehow they were the victims.” A faint, humorless exhale. “And then they’d use their friends’ approval to reinforce it. Make it seem like I was the problem.”

Jordan’s stomach churned.

God, he wanted to tell him he understood. That his own parents were experts in that kind of quiet, psychological warfare.

But he didn’t.

Because this wasn’t about him.

“They didn’t want to love me,” Cree said, pushing the cart slowly, methodically, like the movement gave him something to anchor to. “They wanted me to be grateful.”

Jordan’s chest tightened.

“They wanted me to treat them like they saved me. Like I owed them something.” His jaw flexed slightly. “They never missed a chance to remind me how lucky I was to be adopted by them. How I’d been rescued from a life of alcoholism and poverty.”

Jordan shook his head, his lip curling instinctively at the stereotyping. “What is it with parents and that?” he muttered. “This obsession with gratitude.”

He glanced up at Cree, frustration bleeding into his voice.

“You didn’t ask to be adopted. I didn’t ask to be born. They made that choice.” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “Why do we have to act like they did us some huge favor for doing the bare minimum?”

His voice picked up slightly, the words coming faster now.

“Have they looked around?” he added, half incredulous. “I don’t even know where we started before deciding to be reincarnated, but it couldn’t have been worse than—”

He waved a hand around the aisle, indicating everything. The fluorescent lights. The overpriced pet food. The world in general. Cree would get it. The world was a mess. A full-on dumpster fire most days.

Jordan didn’t know what timeline they’d landed in, but most of it sucked.

Most of it.

Except for Cree.

And Matty, of course.

His chest eased just a little at that thought, like holding onto them both kept him from tipping too far into the dark.

Cree might be worth the Mandela effect and all the weird shit that had happened since that squirrel got fried in the large hadron collider—or whatever it was that had apparently sent the entire world into chaos.

Was there a timeline where Jordan still got Cree and a happy childhood?

Probably not.

Balance and all that.

“To them, I was an accessory,” Cree said, still not looking at him. “Something to show off to their church friends. The poor native child they’d rescued from a life on the res.”

Jordan’s chest tightened—

Then, abruptly, he waved his hands, pointing at the rows of litter boxes stacked in neat, overwhelming lines. “There!”

The word burst out of him too loud, too bright, like he was a castaway getting his first sight of a rescue plane. 

He froze immediately, heat rushing to his face. “Sorry,” he added quickly, wincing. “I just—litter boxes.”

Great. Nailed it. Emotional support idiot. Cree laughed, brows lifting, clearly more amused by Jordan’s enthusiasm than thrown by the interruption. Relief loosened something tight in Jordan’s chest.

Cree steered them closer, giving him space to choose.

“Should we get the robot one?” Jordan asked, already leaning forward, eyes lighting up. “I’m not saying I support robot overlords, but in this one specific instance, I’m willing to negotiate.”

“It’s two hundred dollars,” Cree said dryly.

Jordan clasped his hands together, giving him his best pleading look. “Can you really put a price on not scooping poop?”

“Apparently, yes. Two hundred dollars,” Cree said. A beat. “Plus accessories.”

“Please?” Jordan begged, pooching out his lower lip, dialing it up just enough to be ridiculous and hoping—desperately—that Cree would give in anyway.

Cree dipped his head again, voice lowering, tone shifting into something softer but no less firm. “You do realize we can’t keep them, right? They’re your friend’s kittens.”

Jordan deflated instantly.

Right.

He’d forgotten.

Or maybe he’d just…chosen not to think about it. Let himself pretend for a minute that this was something else. Something more permanent.

Something that didn’t end.

“Fine,” he muttered, slumping back against the cart. “Be that way.”

Cree’s lips curved, just slightly. “When we have our own kitten, you can buy the fancy robot.”

Jordan gasped.

Actually gasped.

Like Cree had just dropped to one knee in the middle of the litter aisle.

“Really?”

Cree smiled, and Jordan’s stomach flipped so hard it was almost dizzying. “Yes, really.”

Our own kitten.

Jordan was going to pass out.

“Have you ever thought about looking for your actual family?” Jordan asked, latching back onto the earlier conversation before his brain could spiral too far into wedding registries and shared leases.

“Sometimes,” Cree admitted, sounding…hesitant.

He reached for a water bowl and a set of food dishes, turning them over in his hands like he was giving himself something to focus on.

Jordan frowned. Why were these even on a different aisle than the food? Who designed this place?

“So…why haven’t you?” Jordan asked, pointing toward the back wall stacked high with pet beds.

When Cree’s brows drew together, Jordan’s stomach dropped.

“Not that you—you don’t have to answer that,” he rushed out, stumbling over the words. “I forget not everyone wants to trauma bond with a stranger.”

God, shut up. Just—stop talking.

“That’s not why I hesitated,” Cree said. “And you’re not a stranger.” 

Jordan stilled.

“You can ask me whatever you want. I mean that.” His voice was steady, grounded in a way that made Jordan’s chest ache a little. “It’s just…hard to explain.”

Jordan swallowed.

“I could run my DNA,” Cree went on. “Unseal my adoption records. Track them down if I wanted to.”

“But?” Jordan prompted gently.

Cree exhaled, the sound quiet but heavy. “Some part of me thinks I won’t like what I find.”

Jordan’s chest tightened.

“That they didn’t want me,” Cree added, gaze dropping. “That they were relieved when I was gone. That they never wanted to see me again.”

“Impossible,” Jordan said immediately.

Too fast. Too certain.

But he didn’t take it back.

Because—

Who wouldn’t want someone like Cree?

Cree’s gaze lifted, locking onto his.

“Do you remember Noah?” he asked. “From the party?”

“The one married to the scary hot guy with the blue eyes?” Jordan said. “Yeah.”

Cree gave him a disgruntled look at the way he described Noah’s husband, but continued. “Noah was kidnapped when he was a toddler and taken across the border. The man who took him trafficked him to his friends.” His voice stayed steady, but there was something heavier beneath it now. “When Noah finally found his mother, she was happy to know he was alive, but she said she couldn’t be his mother anymore. Something about the guilt being too much…too much time having passed with her believing he was dead.” He shrugged slightly. “I guess I always have that in the back of my head.”

Jordan’s chest twisted.

“She sounds horrible,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I would never do that to my kid.”

The words came out sharper than he intended, instinctive and immediate. Who would do that to a child? Too many people.

Jordan couldn’t imagine it—finding out your child was alive and then just…walking away. Abandoning them all over again. Noah didn’t seem like someone who carried that kind of trauma on the surface. If anything, he seemed completely put together. Rich. Successful. Married to a man who looked like he could kill someone with a glance. Surrounded by people who clearly loved him.

Had he always been that resilient?

Or had it taken years to build that version of himself from the ground up?

They fell into silence after that, the weight of the conversation settling between them.

Not uncomfortable. Just…full.

They grabbed a cardboard scratcher and a cat bed shaped like a clamshell, the ridiculousness of it easing some of the tension as Jordan ran his hand over the soft lining.

By the time they made it to the register, the pretty cashier was openly watching them, her gaze flicking between them like she was trying to piece together exactly what they were.

Jordan handed the kittens over to Cree again, then hopped out of the cart, stretching his legs as his feet hit the ground.

As soon as Cree passed the kittens back, he stepped in behind Jordan, arms sliding around him without hesitation, settling easily around his waist. He rested his chin on the top of Jordan’s head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jordan stilled.

Warmth wrapped around him from behind—solid, steady, grounding in a way that made his chest ache.

The cashier’s expression dropped into something that could only be described as disappointment, and Jordan had to bite back a laugh.

Almost.

Jordan shifted slightly, trying to figure out how to help pay while juggling two kittens, but before he could even attempt it, Cree tapped his card against the reader.

Done.

Effortless.

Once Cree gathered their bags, they headed out into the parking lot, the automatic doors whooshing open, letting in a rush of air and distant traffic noise.

Cree opened Jordan’s door for him, waiting until he was settled before moving around to the driver’s side. He climbed in, then leaned over without a word, reaching for the seatbelt and pulling it across Jordan’s chest.

Jordan froze.

The brush of his arm, the closeness again—so casual, like it didn’t mean anything, like it didn’t make Jordan’s pulse spike every single time.

Cree clicked it into place, then belted himself in.

“What do you think Matty and Lake are doing right now?” Jordan asked, mostly to distract himself from the fact that his brain had just short-circuited again.

Cree grimaced. “Nothing I want to think about.”

Jordan laughed. “We’ve already walked in on them once. How many times before it stops looking like an accident and starts looking like a voyeurism thing?”

Cree hummed thoughtfully. “Is voyeurism where you like to watch or where you like to be watched?”

Jordan narrowed his eyes at him. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“I’m pretty vanilla,” Cree admitted. “At least compared to my friends.”

“Well, if you’re vanilla, I’m like plain Greek yogurt,” Jordan muttered.

Cree snorted, the sound surprised and genuine. “I don’t think being inexperienced and being vanilla are the same thing. You can’t know what you like until you’ve tried it.”

Jordan flushed, heat creeping up his neck.

“It’s just…hard,” he admitted, gaze dropping to the kittens in his lap as one of them shifted, tiny claws catching lightly on his shirt.

“What is?” Cree asked.

“Sex,” Jordan said quietly, turning his head toward the window instead of looking at him.

There was a beat.

Then, softer, “What in particular scares you?” Cree asked. “If you feel like telling me.”

No pressure. No push. Just…there. Waiting.

And somehow, that made it harder to deflect.

Jordan risked a quick glance in his direction. “It’s…embarrassing.”

“What is?”

“Sex.” Jordan made a face, staring down at his hands. “There’s, like, all this expectation and body fluids and weird, embarrassing noises and the inability to maintain any type of control,” he babbled, words tumbling over each other faster the longer he went on. Then he snapped his mouth shut, mortified. “Never mind. Forget I said any of that.”

“I won’t,” Cree said simply. “I won’t forget it.” His tone stayed calm, steady in a way that didn’t make Jordan feel stupid. “It’s normal to be nervous. Especially the first time.” A small pause. “But if it makes you feel any better, nobody’s exempt from the embarrassing parts of sex. Not even porn stars. You’re kind of in it together at that point.”

“That’s even worse,” Jordan groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Now someone has to witness me at my most vulnerable, embarrassing moments.”

“Yeah,” Cree said. “That’s kind of the point.”

Jordan blinked.

“That’s why you don’t sleep with someone who would use that against you,” Cree continued. “Or exploit it.”

Jordan’s chest tightened.

“Like you?” he asked, glancing at him before immediately looking away again, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

“Yeah,” Cree said easily. “Like me, rockstar.” A beat. Then, with a faint exhale, “But we’re going to put a pin in this conversation while we’re in the car. I’m trying to be a good person and the thought of you and me is going to make that impossible.”

Jordan huffed a quiet laugh even as his whole body jolted with awareness. “You are a good person. The best person.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “Maybe too good for me.”

“No such thing,” Cree said without missing a beat. “But this is to be continued.” He nodded toward the windshield. “We’re at your place. We need a plan.”

Jordan looked up at his apartment complex.

The building loomed exactly the same as always—brick, slightly too beige, faintly depressing—but it felt different now. Charged. Like something was waiting for him inside.

What would they find?

Matty and Lake in bed?

Matty and Lake fighting?

Matty and Lake fighting in bed?

Jordan winced.

“I’m not much of a planner,” he admitted, watching a neighbor walk past without really seeing them.

“Okay,” Cree said, already shifting into problem-solving mode. “One of us stays down here with the kittens.” He glanced toward the building, thinking it through. “Or I can wait in the hallway while you pack. That way we don’t contaminate Matty’s space and cause him to have an allergic reaction.”

“You get in, get out,” Cree continued. “We’re gone before they even realize you were there.”

Would that even work? It sounded like some kind of spy mission. Jordan was good with those. He was familiar with those. Far more familiar than packing his belongings to go stay at his crush’s place. 

Jordan tightened his hold on the kittens, grounding himself in their small, warm bodies as one of them shifted, pressing its face into his arm.

He needed clothes.

Because he was staying with Cree.

For multiple days.

Multiple. Days.

Oh God.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Yeah,” Jordan said, a little too quickly. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

His voice sounded brighter than he felt—like if he leaned into the enthusiasm hard enough, it might drown out the nerves crawling up his spine.

What else could he do?