After Bryan departed, closing the door with a soft click, Grayson found himself alone with the unconscious man—Neville.
He pulled out his personal light-brain—a military-grade model, far more secure than his corporate one—and sent an encrypted message.
He should have been at his desk right now, buried under the endless pile of reports, shipping routes, and signatures only he could give. A thousand things demanded his attention.
And yet—he was here. Sitting in the chair opposite the sofa, his silver eyes fixed on Neville's sleeping face. A weird sense of relief was settling over him.
A patch, he said. But there was no patch. The thought felt like a cold, hard fact in his mind. Grayson had seen him just moments before this happened. How the hell did anyone manage to target him so openly? Right under our noses. It's embarrassing.
Without his glasses, Neville's ocean-blue eyes were hidden. Grayson remembered them too clearly—ocean-blue, sharp when awake. He moved, ignoring Bryan's inquisitive glance from beyond the glass wall.
Even if Bryan had pressed him for answers, Grayson wouldn't have had an answer either. Why did it feel like a knot inside him had loosened—that Neville was safe? Why did it matter that he had arrived in time, that that man—
Grayson stopped himself, jaw tightening—no use thinking about that.
His gaze returned to Neville. Still. Quiet. Sleeping peacefully—at least, that's what it looked like. Grayson didn't notice the subtle tension in Neville's shoulders that suggested consciousness.
The afternoon light spilled in from the tall windows, casting golden lines across Neville's face, painting a golden line across his cheek. The glow caught on the small red mole under the corner of his right eye.
Grayson found himself staring at it—counting the seconds, the breaths, the rhythm of Neville's chest. He had noticed it before—forty-seven times, if he was honest. Never once meaning to stare at it.
And still, he wondered. Why was he so focused on it, on him?
Neville, despite appearances, was very much awake. The inhibitor had knocked him out for ten, maybe twenty minutes at most, but his unique race made him recover faster than any ordinary omega. Still, he kept himself perfectly still, his breathing even and his eyes closed.
Maybe it was the weight of that silver gaze. Maybe it was the lingering embarrassment of being in a vulnerable state. Or maybe it was Shelly's running commentary echoing in his mind that made the situation too mortifying to face.
Neville heard the creak of the chair as Grayson moved. According to Shelly, he was leaning forward now, elbows braced on his knees, studying Neville with an intense stare.
"His face?" Grayson's voice was a murmur, barely audible—Neville's sharpened senses had to strain to catch it. "There are plenty more who are conventionally more attractive. Models. Actors. Like that omega from the Zhang family, they keep trying to set me up with."
He paused, then continued his quiet self-interrogation. "His scent?"
The tingling in his glands had subsided, manageable—or so Grayson told himself. He knew it was a lie. The sensation wasn't fading; it was intensifying.
"I'm not even sure if it was his real scent or his perfume. But it's... calming."
Neville forced his expression to remain calm, his breathing steady. Even though his heart rate betrayed him and spiked anxiously. Did his blockers not work? Had his suppressants failed? Had his patches slipped? When?
"His competence?" Grayson's mouth curved faintly, as if mocking himself. "Exceptional, yes. But I've worked with exceptional men before. Generals who could turn the tide of war. Board members who could manipulate markets overnight. Not one of them ever made me want to…"
He left the sentence unfinished and sat in silence.
Then came a sigh—low, frustrated, utterly human. Neville almost cracked an eye open at the sound. To think the great Grayson Maxwell could be driven to this—completely confused by his own feelings.
"Why?" The word dropped heavily.
The weight of that gaze was almost unbearable. Neville felt as if he had been stripped bare, laid out for a feast, perhaps a BBQ—or maybe something entirely different.
Shelly, of course, knew he was awake and was pouting. She was not pleased about being ignored. Her little shell icon drooped in a dramatic show of protest. [Are you kidding me, host? The pheromone readings earlier were off the charts! From both of you!]
Shelly, read the room properly.
Shelly breezily ignored her host. [The sexual tension was so thick I could have written a whole fanfiction trilogy about it! 100k, explicit rating!]
'For the love of God, Shelly. This is NOT a romance novel.' The plea was lost in his thoughts; his head throbbed as he fought Shelly's cheerful fantasies mixed with his own memories.
Unfortunately, his mind betrayed him. Images of what had happened earlier kept flashing—Grayson's arms around him, the steady heartbeat against his ear, the way Grayson's scent had made his body feel safe, home, mine.
Grayson suddenly moved. He rose to his feet as though the act itself could burn away his thoughts, crossing to his desk without sitting. His back was straight as he stared out at the cityscape below.
That was when Neville decided to "wake up."
He stirred slowly, letting a soft groan slip past his lips. Immediate regret hit when Grayson turned around, sharp and alert, silver eyes directly looking at him.
Their gazes met across the office. The air froze. Neither moved.
Neville's ocean-blue eyes were glassy and moist from his feigned sleep. For once, there was no mask—just unguarded vulnerability.
And Grayson…
The afternoon sun had shifted, casting the edges of his silver eyes with gold. A lock of dark hair had fallen across his brow, softening the features of his face. But there was nothing soft about the way he looked at Neville. He stood there, caught between the comfort of work and the weird feeling he couldn't control when looking at Neville.
"You're awake." His voice, when it came, was low, almost rough.
It was not a question. It was a statement—one that carried both accusation and relief, as though Grayson couldn't decide which he hated more.
Grayson didn't wait for Neville's response. With stiff movements that were almost mechanical, he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a memory chip. Walked over and placed it on the table with a soft click that echoed in the quiet office.
Neville blinked at him, his ocean-blue eyes wide with feigned confusion. He was a picture-perfect image of a vulnerable omega, frail and recovering.
"While you're resting," Grayson said, his voice flat. "You can look at the files inside this. You know where the holographic projector is. Just link it to your workstation."
The words hit Neville like a bucket of cold seawater.
[Host, did—he just…did he just—] Shelly's shell-mouth fell open in shock. [Did he just seriously assign work to someone who's still sick?!]
'Right? The audacity!' Neville raged internally, keeping his expression blank. 'I'm a patient! A recently-traumatized, barely clinging to life, recovering patient. And he wants me to do work?!'
The sheer nerve of it made Neville want to grab Grayson by the collar and drill work-life balance into his brain. But words wouldn't be enough. Instead, Neville channeled all his rage into acting.
He picked up the chip with exaggerated slowness. He deliberately made his movements sluggish and weak, making himself look even more pitiful than he actually was. His fingers trembled just enough to look fragile—a genuine residual tremor, which only made his act even more believable—making sure to look as pathetic as possible.
His fingers fumbled with the small device, nearly dropping it twice. He managed to bring it up close to his face, squinting as though he had forgotten what a memory chip even was.
He made sure his expression screamed, What am I supposed to do with this?
And it worked.
Grayson's expression visibly changed—ever so slightly, but enough. His shoulders tensed as he watched Neville's Oscar-worthy performance of a man who couldn't possibly be expected to work.
Grayson's instincts conflicted: a part of him felt the alpha's need to protect and provide for omegas, while the other—his deeply ingrained habit—saw work as the universal cure for any ailment.
When Neville continued to stare at the chip like it contained the secrets of the universe, Grayson finally moved. He went back to his desk and pulled another memory chip from his drawer, then went back to the sofa.
Neville watched him, torn between disbelief and pity. Does he really have an entire drawer full of urgent assignments that he resorted to using a patient?
When Grayson came close, he didn't just leave the memory chip on the table. Instead, he pressed it directly into Neville's palm. Then, he closed his larger hand over it, clasping both the chip and Neville's fingers.
The remaining fog in Neville's mind cleared instantly, like mist burned away by the sun. The ache in his muscles dulled. Even his ragged breathing smoothened out completely.
It was as if Grayson's touch had reset his entire system, bringing him back to life.
Neville's mind went into a panic. He realized—Grayson wasn't letting his hand go. His thumb moved on its own accord. It was a slow, deliberate movement that traced a small circle on the inside of Neville's wrist. Then, it slid unconsciously, stroking along his knuckles.
Warmth spread like fire under his skin, and Neville's heart trembled. What was going on? Where am I? Who am I?
Neither of them was pulling away.
Grayson was just as confused. He watched Neville's complexion change in seconds, replaced by a soft flush that had nothing to do with fever. Even he felt a change in his own body. The constant ache in his head eased, and his glands pulsed with a dangerous rhythm. It couldn't be interpreted other than—a desire to spread his pheromones, to claim something. To—
The sudden tightening of Neville's grip on his hand snapped him back to reality.
Their hands were locked together. Neville's fingers had curled around his, holding on like a lifeline. They both stared at their clasped hands, as if their hands had developed a consciousness of their own and rebelled against their will.
Grayson blinked, dragging himself out of the haze. With his free hand, he tapped Neville lightly on the forehead. The gesture was casual, almost teasing, but it was intimate.
"Make sure you finish this by the end of the day," he said. His voice was lower, rougher than he meant, the words carrying the weight of everything he hadn't said.
The fragile spell shattered like glass.
Neville's act collapsed instantly. His mouth opened, closed, opened again—no words, only outrage. His eyes widened, his jaw nearly hitting the floor.
You want me to work? Now? After I nearly—after what just—are you seriously asking me to process reports while I'm recovering from a medical emergency?!
Grayson, perhaps realizing he had miscalculated, tried to make a strategic step back. But it was already too late; the damage was done.
"By the end of the day?" Neville repeated, his lips twitching in barely-contained outrage. His voice climbed an octave despite his best attempt at politeness. "By the END OF THE DAY?"
"The doctor said not to move you," Grayson countered, his silver eyes steady, winning him with irrefutable logic. "She didn't say you couldn't review documents."
"That's insan—" Neville cut himself off, changing his face into something more professional. "I mean, I'll absolutely do my best to complete this."
Seeing that Grayson still hadn't let go of his hand, our ever-so-king of complaining snapped. Without thinking, Neville childishly gripped Grayson's hand with both of his own, squeezing as tightly as he could.
Of course, his grip was nothing to an alpha who had once been a general. Still, Neville squeezed with everything he had, his ocean-blue eyes narrowing behind his smudged glasses as if sheer willpower could make up for his physical weakness.
[Host! What are you doing?!] Shelly shrieked in his mind, her pink shell avatar vibrating so violently it threatened to crack.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, Neville chanted, ignoring her.
He didn't dare look at Grayson's face. He didn't want to see what expression that unfairly handsome face had. Instead, he freed his hands and plugged the memory chip into the holographic projector.
"These files won't organize themselves," he muttered under his breath.
The room settled into silence, heavy except for the quiet hum of the projector. Somewhere in the background, Neville thought he heard Grayson murmur something—an apology, maybe. Or maybe he imagined it.
Now he apologizes? Neville fumed silently, eyes scanning the first file. So much for your 'care' for competent employees. No wonder nobody wants to stand out here—he's the problem.