NOAH
I sat down, the leather chair sighing under . This was a real job. Not just a project, not just a whim. I was actually expected to do things.
I opened my laptop and began diving into the reports, the sheer volu of work acting as a distraction from the lingering "ho" feelings I was trying to suppress.
About an hour into a particularly dense financial summary, my phone buzzed.
Cassian: Are you settling in alright?
I stared at the screen. Five words. That was it. But my brain ca to a screeching halt. He was in a high-level eting with the Ministry of Finance, and he had taken five seconds to check on .
The warmth I’d been suppressing flooded back, hot and embarrassing.
I typed.
"Yes! Thank you for asking ;)"
No. Too eager. Way too eager. Did I just sound like a manic puppy? Delete.
"Fine, thanks."
Cold. Cold like a frozen turkey. Might upset him. Might be insulting. Delete.
"Yes, I’m settling in, the workload is as brutal as expected but I’m managing."
Oh god, complaint central. Also, way too long. Does he even care about my workload? Delete.
"Yeah, thanks."
I hovered over send, my thumb shaking like a leaf in a storm. Maybe add, "Will you be back before I clock out?" No. Too obvious. Too needy. Delete. Add again. Delete again.
My brain screeched. (I am waiting for him.) (But he doesn’t need to know that. Nobody needs to know that.)
My stomach knotted. My thumb twitched. I considered leaving it blank. Just ignore him.
Just act like a functional adult.
Ha.
Functional. I laughed nervously at my own joke.
Finally, like a soldier accepting a death sentence, I typed:
"Managing. Your to-do list is trying to kill ."
I hit send before I could overthink it. Five minutes passed. Then fifteen. Delivered, then Read.
No response.
An hour later, still nothing. I found myself checking the phone every seven minutes.
He’s not going to respond, Noah. He’s busy. He’s always busy. Was the to-do list comnt too casual? Did I cross a line?
The spiral was pathetic. I forced my head down, burying myself in the presentation review. He’s not your boyfriend, I reminded myself. You’re his assistant. And also his... whatever. But not his boyfriend.
By the ti 6:00 PM rolled around, I was exhausted. I saved my last docunt and looked toward Cassian’s office.
It was dark.
He hadn’t co back from the Ministry. A small, stupid part of felt deflated, even though I’d told myself a dozen tis not to expect him.
I gathered my things and headed to the lobby, planning to go ho, order takeout, and let a telenovela numb my brain.
"NOAH!"
I froze like I was on gunpoint.
Mason again.
This ti he was surrounded by a group of six or seven coworkers, all of them in high-spirits.
"Karaoke!" Mason shouted, grabbing my arm. "Co on! The whole team is going! It’s Friday!"
"I’m tired, Mason. I have things to—"
"You need to have fun! It’s been ages and you just got back from a long trip." Mason leaned in, lowering his voice. "Also... maybe et soone? Get over Lila? Have a life?" He gave a aningful wiggle of his eyebrows.
I sighed. I looked at the group. Cassian wasn’t coming. I had no plans other than moping in my apartnt.
Just go, I told myself. It’s one night.
"Fine," I said.
The walk to the bar was surprisingly pleasant. People who had barely known my na a month ago were suddenly very interested in my life.
They were smiling, asking about the executive floor, and—more importantly—asking "what Cassian Wolfe is like up close."
Ah, I thought, the realization hitting . I’m useful now. I’m the guy who stands next to the monster.
I didn’t take it personally. I gave them nothing, being vague and smiling as I let them wonder.
The karaoke bar was a sensory assault... neon lights, sticky floors, and a private booth that was already vibrating with bad singing. I found a corner seat, trying to make myself as small as possible.
A round of beers appeared on the table. One was set in front of , the condensation glistening on the glass. The sll of the hops hit ... sharp, bitter, and cold.
Suddenly, I wasn’t in a bar. I was in Alex Hendrix’s suite. I could sll the expensive gin, the chemical burn of the drug, and the terrifying blurring of my vision as the floor rushed up to et .
"I’m okay, thanks," I said, pushing the glass away with a steady hand.
"You sure? It’s Friday!" soone yelled over the music.
"Yeah. I’m good." I ordered a juice and watched the others.
My mind flickered to Cassian... the taste of whiskey on his lips when he kissed . That was the only alcohol I wanted anywhere near .
"Your turn!" The songbook was thrust into my hands.
"Pass," I said imdiately.
"NOAH—"
"I said pass, Mason." My voice was firm, and the group moved on.
I was content to just watch until I noticed soone staring.
Across the booth, a young woman was looking at . She was beautiful in that effortless, "old money" way... soft features, elegant clothes, and a delicate air.
"Don’t look now," Mason whispered, leaning in. "But Eloise Park has been staring at you for twenty minutes. She’s an intern in Legal. Her dad owns like four percent of the company shares. This is FATE, Noah."
"Mason, don’t—"
Too late. Mason literally shoved toward her. "GO!"
I stumbled slightly, ending up right next to her. She laughed softly, a silver-bell sound. "Sorry about him," I said, rubbing the back of my neck.
"It’s okay," she said, her voice gentle. "I’m Eloise."
The conversation was actually easy. She was nice. Genuinely nice. We talked about work and the Spain trip (the sanitized version), and then she tilted her head. "Wait a minute... are you Nick Bennett’s brother? From the news?"
"Please don’t," I groaned.
She laughed again. "Your secret is safe with . I won’t tell anyone you’re related to a national hero."
It was a pleasant conversation. But as I looked at her, I felt absolutely nothing. No spark, no flicker of interest. Just the recognition that she was a nice person.
The rest of the group noticed, of course.
"Company couple alert!" soone teased, making Eloise blush furiously. One guy, Jin, was glaring at from across the table, his hand gripping his drink too tight. He clearly liked her.
Please, Jin, take her, I thought. I’m not competition.
Then the drinking gas started.
Eloise was terrible at them. She lost three rounds in a row, her cheeks flushing a deep pink as she took shot after shot.
"You should stop," I warned her. "You’ve had enough."
"I’ll get better!" she giggled, leaning against . I could feel her chest pressing against my arm.. an objective fact that should have elicited so kind of reaction, but I felt like a piece of wood.
"Nooo!" Eloise lost again. A shot of clear, sharp-slling vodka was placed in front of her. She looked at with big, glassy eyes.
"Take it for ? Please? I can’t do another one."
"Co on, Noah!" the group chanted. "Don’t be boring! It’s Friday! Just one!"
The voices started to overlap. The sll of the vodka was filling my nose, sharp and dicinal.
The room started to feel too small.
Then I felt it, a real panic.
It began to claw at the back of my throat. I looked for Mason, but he was at the mic, butchering a pop song.
Eloise’s hand was on my arm, her face close to mine. "Just one," she whispered.
I reached for the glass. My hand was shaking.
Fine. Just to make them stop. Just one.
I picked it up, raising it to my lips. The sll was a punch to the gut. My vision flickered, nausea settling in.
Suddenly, a hand appeared out of the darkness.
Long, thick, elegant fingers snapped around the glass and snatched it out of my hand with surgical precision.
The room went dead silent.
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