-Treasure.
Elias was having what he called his late lunch, early dinner, seated at the long table with a plate of something fragrant and steaming in front of him. I joined him, lowering into the chair at his side, the silverware cool beneath my fingertips. He chewed leisurely, eyes lifting toward me.
"Have you seen your friend?" he asked, voice even, almost idly curious.
"Yeah. Earlier, when we got in this morning. It was quick—I took a nap, and then they woke me up saying you wanted me."
He set down his fork, tilting his head as if measuring time on an invisible scale. "I was just wondering where you'd been. I haven't seen you for two hours."
"Two hours isn't long, Mr. Maxwell," I said, a faint smile in my tone.
He glanced around the empty room, then back at me, lowering his voice. "We're alone now. You can call me Elias."
"Oh—right. Sorry, Elias."
His eyes caught mine, and he leaned in, elbows resting on the table's edge. "You know," he murmured, close enough for his breath to graze my cheek, "in bed I also prefer to be called Elias."
Heat flooded my face before I could stop it. I dropped my gaze to my plate. He smiled as if he'd tasted something sweet, then leaned back into his chair and returned to his meal.
"So," he said between small bites, "tell me more about that friendship of yours with Devon. From what I've heard, you could write a book about it."
I let out a small laugh. "Actually, I'd like that. It'd be overwhelming to read back, but it's a story worth telling."
"I'm all ears," he said, his attention sharp now, as though he'd shifted from casual interest to genuine hunger.
"There's not much to it. I was six, he was seven. We met in a karate class at the sports center in Crifton. We just… stayed friends. Then he moved to Riverford for a while. When he came back, we decided to move to Valmont, start somewhere bigger. The rest is just… our life."
"Was it Devon's idea to work as a bodyguard?"
"Funny thing—it was. He joined a class advertised on our university campus. Certification for personal security work. I tagged along in spite of him—we'd had a fight, and it was my way of making amends. We both got certified, graduated, and then Trevor came along."
"Trevor?" Elias echoed, tilting his head slightly.
"Oh, Cassandra knows him. He runs the agency we're assigned to."
Elias nodded, slow, deliberate, as though filing away a piece of a puzzle. "So you have a bit of a lore around you. I find that interesting."
I gave a short, embarrassed laugh. "There's nothing special about my life. It's full of hardships and plot holes. Nothing particularly nice in it."
"Well, I think it's interesting. That's for me to decide, and I'd like to hear more—especially about you and Devon." His fingers curled loosely together, and with a small, deliberate motion, he crossed them the way someone might for good luck. "You two are… very close?"
"He's the closest person to me. So, yeah, I'd say we're very close."
He studied me with a stillness that made the air between us feel heavier. "If I decided to keep you long term, but not Devon—would that upset you?"
My head lifted. "Why would you get rid of Devon?"
"I wouldn't be getting rid of him," he said lightly. "He's good. I heard great feedback from Mark about how he handled summit security. Even though he's new, it's impressive. I'm talking about contracts—say yours gets extended and his doesn't. Would that bother you?"
The question sat in front of me like an unmarked door, waiting for me to choose how to open it. Of course I wouldn't want to be separated from him. But this was work, and my answer needed to fit neatly into the shape Elias was expecting. My mouth went dry as I tried to find the version of the truth that wouldn't cost me either way.
The fork in my hand hovered over the plate, suspended mid-air as if even the silver couldn't decide which way to lean. His words spread across the table like a slow ripple, reaching places in me I would have preferred to keep still. I could feel the chair beneath me, its carved edges pressing against my back, grounding me in a room that suddenly felt smaller.
Devon's face came to mind without effort—the tilt of his head when he listened, the quiet discipline in his eyes, the way he never seemed to abandon a place until it fell apart on its own. We had carried years between us like a shared satchel, stuffed with things no one else could name. The idea of having to set it down, to let him walk somewhere I couldn't follow, was something I had never truly imagined, as if our paths were welded together in places too deep to see.
I kept my gaze on Elias's plate, watching the slow rise and fall of his hand as he lifted the fork, the metal catching the light. He was in no hurry for my answer. The stillness of his waiting felt deliberate, the kind of silence meant to encourage truth, but truth here was slippery. If I spoke plainly, I risked showing too much. If I shaped my words to please him, I'd be planting seeds I didn't want to see grow.
My tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth, tasting the faint remnants of the seasoned air between us—garlic and something roasted, blending with the sharper scent of wine in his glass. My chest felt tight, as though the room's air had been portioned and I had to ration it carefully. I thought about saying it wouldn't matter, about pretending the contract was just another passing job, but my mouth resisted the lie. I thought about admitting that yes, it would bother me, that the absence of Devon would gnaw at me like a toothache left untreated. That, too, felt dangerous.
So I sat there, turning the answer over like a coin in my palm, wondering which side Elias would want to see land face-up. His eyes didn't waver. They held mine with the patience of someone willing to wait all night for the truth to fall out of my mouth.
I drew in a slow breath, tasting the pause before my voice.
I let the air move slowly through me before I spoke, letting my eyes rest on the curve of his wine glass, the deep red shifting like a small sea when his fingers brushed it. "I think," I began, the words deliberate, "Devon's presence has been part of my rhythm for a long time. If that rhythm changes, I'd have to learn the new steps."
Elias's fork stilled, the silver resting against porcelain as though it were listening too.
"I'm used to having him near," I continued, the sound of my own voice quieter than I intended, "and not just in work. We've been beside each other for years, through things I wouldn't have wanted to face alone. So, yes… I'd feel it if he weren't here. The kind of feeling you notice in the pit of your stomach before you even register what's missing."
My fingers had curled against my thigh, hidden beneath the table. I loosened them and reached for my water, the glass cool against my palm, giving me something steady to hold. I sipped, hoping the movement might cut through the weight of his gaze, but his eyes stayed fixed on me, calm and unblinking, as though he were examining not the answer I'd given but the shadows between my words.
"I also know," I said after a pause, placing the glass back on the table with care, "that work changes. Assignments end, contracts shift. People get moved where they're needed. If it comes to that, I'd adjust."
Elias's mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite anything else, his attention lingering on me for a moment longer before he returned to his plate. The quiet scrape of cutlery against ceramic filled the space, but his question still sat in my chest like a stone in water, heavy and unmoving. I took another small bite, though I barely tasted it, my thoughts looping back to Devon and the unspoken thread between us that no contract could ever fully cut.
Elias's fork moved again, steady and unhurried, the tines glinting each time they caught the overhead light. He took a small bite, chewed once or twice, and then set the fork down altogether, as though the meal could wait.
"So tell me," he said, his tone carrying the weight of idle conversation but the precision of a scalpel, "this closeness you speak of… how far does it go?"
My eyes flicked to him, measuring his expression. There was no smirk, no playful curl to his mouth this time—only a focused interest, the kind that stripped the air of anything casual.
"We've known each other almost our whole lives," I said, my thumb tracing the rim of my plate. "We've been through things people usually don't talk about in polite settings. There's a lot I wouldn't be standing here for if it weren't for him."
Elias leaned back slightly, the stem of his wine glass balanced between his fingers, rolling it just enough to stir the dark liquid inside. "That sounds like the kind of bond people envy."
"It's not something we ever planned. We just… stayed."
His head tilted, eyes narrowing a fraction, the motion small enough that most people would miss it. "And if I wanted to keep you in my employment for the long term, but not him… you've told me you'd feel it. But what about him? Do you think he'd feel your absence the same way?"
The question caught somewhere between my ribs. I imagined Devon's face, the restrained way he carried things, his quiet that could fill a whole room if you let it. I thought of all the moments I had leaned into his presence without asking if he leaned back.
"I don't know," I said finally, the truth heavier than I expected. "Devon doesn't say much about what he feels. But I think… yes. Even if he never told me, I think he would."
He raised the glass to his lips and drank, the movement slow, deliberate, as if sealing my answer somewhere behind his eyes.
He set the glass down with a muted clink, his fingers resting against the base as though anchoring it in place. "You've given me something to think about," he said, his voice lighter now, like a thread of silk drawn between fingertips. "But I imagine there's much more to your story than you've told me tonight."
He picked up his fork again, cutting neatly into what remained on his plate. "Perhaps one day you'll tell me everything. The kind of details that don't fit into neat answers at a dinner table."
The shift was subtle but deliberate, and I could feel it in the space between us. The weight of his earlier questions lingered, yet he wove them into something softer, almost inviting. My shoulders eased, though the back of my neck still held the memory of that close, assessing gaze.
"I'd have to start from a long way back," I said, pushing a piece of bread across the plate, soaking it in the last of the oil and herbs. "It's not a short story."
"Good," he replied, his tone carrying an unspoken promise that time was not an obstacle for him. "I enjoy stories that take their time."
For a while, there was only the quiet rhythm of cutlery against ceramic, the faint hum of the air vents, and the distant echo of footsteps somewhere in the hall. I focused on the simple act of eating, but his presence had a way of slipping past the surface, making each bite feel like an act performed under watchful eyes.
"Thank you for joining me," Elias said at last, setting his fork aside. He lifted the cloth napkin from his lap and dabbed the corners of his mouth with an unhurried precision, the gesture so deliberate it felt ceremonial. Folding it neatly, he placed it on the table and rose from his chair in one seamless motion. "Now, let's move to the workstation. I have a lot to do, and I'd like you to keep me company." He didn't wait for an answer—he simply began walking.
I pushed my chair back, the legs whispering against the polished floor, and followed him out. The air in the hallway felt cooler, touched faintly by the scent of stone and varnished wood. As we reached the base of the grand staircase, my gaze drifted upward without meaning to.
Devon was there on the second floor, leaning over the banister, forearms resting along its curve. His eyes met mine from that distance, steady and unreadable. There was no wave, no nod, just that brief thread of recognition stretching between us before I let it go and continued after Elias.
We stepped into his office, a space stripped of excess, where everything had its place. Three monitors formed a silent wall of light at the far end of the desk—one wide and horizontal, two narrow verticals flanking it like sentinels. Beside them sat a speaker, squat and black, its surface catching the glow from the screens. Elias settled into his chair, the leather shifting with a quiet sigh under his weight.
The keys of his mechanical keyboard began to sing—a sound soft and rounded, like raindrops against thick fabric. He played a few bars of classical music through the speaker, the melody settling over the room like a thin veil. I chose the sofa in the corner, letting its back cradle me while I watched him work.
His eyes flicked toward me briefly. "Would you like something to read while you're sitting there?"
"I get bored of reading," I said, resting my arm along the chair's edge.
"Then what are you going to do in the meantime?"
"I can just watch you work."
He smiled faintly without turning from the monitors. "All right, here's the deal. I can give you something to read. You can pretend to read it and watch me anyway. Just don't focus all your attention on me. It makes me nervous."
I couldn't help the short laugh that escaped me. "You're serious?"
"I'm serious. I get nervous."
"It's hard to believe you'd get nervous with someone watching you work."
His hands kept moving over the keys, the rhythm unbroken. "Your presence has a strong grip on me. If you keep looking at me like that, I might give up and have you right here on this couch."
I leaned back, grinning. "That's fine. Just give me the book. Oh—what was the book you quoted from? The one by Khalil… Khalid? I don't remember."
"Khalil Gibran," he corrected smoothly. "The Prophet. Just one second."
He rose from the chair, crossing to a tall cabinet against the wall. The hinges gave a muted sigh as the doors opened, revealing the top shelf lined with trophies, each catching the room's light in narrow flashes of gold and silver. Beneath them, hundreds of books sat shoulder to shoulder, the air inside the cabinet holding the faint scent of paper and dust. His fingers skimmed along the spines with practiced familiarity until they paused. He slid a slender volume free, its cover worn from years of handling, and turned to place it in my hands.
I turned the book over in my hands, feeling the weight of it, the faint give of its worn cover beneath my fingertips. The pages were smooth in some places, slightly rough in others, like skin that had weathered different seasons. I let them fan beneath my thumb, the sound soft and quick, until they stilled on a random page. My eyes moved lazily over the lines, not catching on much at first, until one sentence held me still.
When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
The words sat on the page like something waiting to be acknowledged. I read them again, slower this time, each syllable settling in my head with the weight of stone dropping into deep water.
I pictured Devon not as he was now, but as he would be if I stepped away from him—if the space between us was no longer filled by the constant nearness of his voice, his shape in the room, the ease of knowing he was only an arm's reach away. The thought of distance brought an ache, but the sentence insisted on another perspective. I imagined him as the mountain in those lines—something towering, complete, better seen from a step back. From a plain, every curve and height would be visible, the parts that up close are hidden by the slope itself.
It made me wonder if I'd ever truly looked at him clearly. Living beside him all these years might have dulled some edges in my mind, or blurred the ones I should have traced more carefully. Maybe I had been walking along the mountain's ridges so long that I forgot to stop and see its full shape.
The music in the room swelled gently, a violin holding a note that seemed to slip beneath my thoughts, carrying them further. Elias's keyboard kept its steady rhythm, like rain falling somewhere just out of sight. I sat there with the book open on my lap, my eyes still resting on that same passage, reading it over as if it might yield a different truth the third time around. But it stayed the same, quiet and certain, like it knew it didn't need to explain itself any further.
I closed my hand lightly over the edge of the page, not yet turning it, letting the words linger in that narrow space between paper and thought.
Elias's voice broke gently through the music. "You've been very still for a while. Which part are you reading?"
I glanced down at the book, the truth still open in my lap, and slid my thumb over the passage I had actually been staring at. I didn't feel like sharing it. My eyes drifted to another page, one I had skimmed earlier, and I let the words roll from memory as if they'd been the ones holding me there.
"It's this part," I said, pretending to check the lines. 'You have been told that, even like a chain, you are as weak as your weakest link. This is but half the truth. You are also as strong as your strongest link. To measure you by your smallest deed is to reckon the power of the ocean by the frailty of its foam. To judge you by your failures is to cast blame upon the seasons for their inconstancy.'
He paused his typing. The keys stilled, the hum of the monitors filling the space until he leaned back slightly in his chair. "And what do you think it means?"
I stared at the print, my eyes tracing the shapes of the letters. "I think it's saying people look too much at the parts of someone that aren't great. Like… if you mess up once, they'll remember that instead of all the good things you've done. But then it also says you're as strong as your strongest part. I don't know how to… balance those in my head. Like, if both are true, how do you know which one defines you?"
He turned his chair slightly toward me, folding one leg over the other. "They both do. You are a collection of contradictions. Your strengths don't erase your weaknesses, and your weaknesses don't diminish your strengths. The mistake is believing that one must outweigh the other."
I thought about that, chewing lightly on the inside of my cheek. "But if people only see one side—say, the weaker side—then it shapes how they treat you. Doesn't that make the weaker side more… powerful?"
"Only if you allow their perception to become your own truth," Elias said. His voice had softened, as though he were drawing me toward something rather than pressing it onto me. "The smallest deed, the worst day, the most clumsy mistake—these are like the foam at the edge of the tide. They exist, but they are not the ocean."
I let my fingers brush over the paper, feeling the faint ridge of ink. "So then… how do you make people see the whole ocean?"
"You don't," he replied without hesitation. "You live in it. You invite those who can swim in its depths, and you stop wasting your breath convincing those who only want to stand on the shore."
The music swelled again, that slow ache of strings filling the air like something unspoken. My thoughts began to knot together. "Sometimes I feel like I don't know which parts of me are the strongest. I can talk to people, read them, keep up even when I'm not sure I understand everything. But there's so much I don't know. And then I think—what if the parts I think are strong aren't even the strongest?"
"That is the work of a lifetime," he said. "To know yourself in full. Most never do. You will ask questions forever, and that is what will keep you alive inside. Answers are temporary. The questions will grow with you."
I looked at him for a moment, the monitors casting their pale light along the line of his jaw. My mouth was full of more questions, some tangled too closely with things I didn't want to give away. I kept them there, swallowing them back into silence.
"What's the name of the music?" I asked instead.
He turned back to the screen, his fingers returning to the keyboard. "Adagio for Strings. Opus Eleven."
The notes reached higher, the melody stretching like a slow pull of fabric, and I sat there with the book still open, my mind moving in currents I couldn't yet chart.
The couch had started to feel too stiff under me, the edge pressing against the back of my legs. Without much thought, I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, the book open in my hands, my back resting lightly against the side of the couch. The wood was cool under my feet, the faint scent of the paper mingling with the warm air in the room. I let myself sink into the pages, letting the music fill the spaces between sentences.
After a while, Elias's voice cut through the quiet hum of the keyboard. "Okay—break time."
I looked up as his chair turned. His eyes fell on me, his brow lifting in mild curiosity. "Why are you on the floor?"
I shifted slightly, the book still in my lap. "Oh, nothing. Just felt more comfortable like this."
He rose from his chair with that steady, unhurried ease that made it clear he'd already decided what came next. Crossing the small space between us, he lowered himself to the floor in front of me without a word. One knee bent between mine, one hand braced on the floor beside me, the other sliding up the back of my neck.
The first press of his lips was warm, deliberate, tasting faintly of the tea he'd been drinking earlier. The book in my lap slid away unnoticed, landing soft against the rug. My hands found the edge of his shirt, fingertips grazing the cotton before curling into it, pulling him closer without thinking.
His mouth deepened the kiss, tilting my head to match the angle he wanted, his breath mingling with mine until I could feel it spill across my tongue. His hand stayed braced beside me, the other stroking through my hair before I shifted my head slightly—subtle enough to guide his fingers away. He let them drop to my shoulder, the grip firm and grounding.
Somehow my knees had opened, legs framing his hips. He adjusted smoothly, bringing his knees closer to mine, his chest pressing into me until every breath was something we shared. I could feel the faint rise and fall of him against my own chest, the slow, coaxing pressure of his hand at the back of my skull telling me to stay right there.
The rest of the room blurred out—the desk, the screens, the clean lines of the space—until all that was left was the heat of him between my thighs and the way his body fit into mine.
The kiss drew deeper, our breaths tangling, my pulse loud in my ears. His grip at my shoulder tightened—not to pin, but to hold, to keep me tethered. My fingers slipped under his shirt, skin hot and smooth under my palms, ribs expanding and contracting under each shallow breath.
He pushed forward, coaxing me until my shoulders met the couch. His knees bracketed my hips, crowding in closer. The scent of him—cotton, tea, and the faint woodsmoke warmth of cedar—filled my head. His mouth moved with a heat that grew heavier with each kiss, the drag of his lips pulling at something low inside me.
My hands roamed to his sides, the taut muscle shifting under my touch. His thumb brushed my jaw, tilting me so his tongue could slide against mine again, slow but greedy, and I swallowed down the sound that tried to leave my throat. The music swelled, strings curling low in my belly, each note feeding the pull of heat building between us.
I moved closer, hips shifting up to meet the firm weight of him through his trousers. The fabric was warm and unforgiving, every subtle grind reminding me exactly how hard he was. My legs hooked tighter around his hips, drawing him in until I could feel the solid length of him press right where I needed it.
He slid his hand down from my shoulder, following the line of my ribs to my waist. His palm was hot, fingers splaying as he reached my hip, then dipping lower until he cupped me through the front of my trousers. The pressure made my breath catch, my cock twitching against his hand. Even through the fabric, the warmth and weight of his grip left me aching for more.
I fisted the back of his shirt, knuckles digging into the muscles along his spine. His lips never left mine—hungry, wet, each pass of his tongue urging me deeper. His thumb pressed along the outline of my cock, tracing me through the fabric, and a low sound escaped me before I could stop it.
The couch pressed into my back, his body filling every inch of space above me. The subtle roll of his hips against mine sent friction sparking straight through my core. He was hard—thick and solid—and every slow grind made it harder to think past the next drag of his mouth or the next squeeze of his hand.
He shifted his knees in, locking me between them, and ground down just enough to make me hiss against his lips. His thumb rolled over the head of my cock through the fabric, a slow, maddening press that had me chasing his kiss harder, gasping against his mouth.
The violin in the speakers climbed higher, but all I could hear was the slick pull of our mouths and the muted rasp of fabric rubbing between us. My thighs clenched around his hips, my body angling up to meet each measured push. Every nerve felt wired tight, tuned to him—his weight, his scent, his mouth, the heat of his cock grinding into mine through too many layers.
When I broke the kiss to breathe, his mouth found my jaw, then my throat, his teeth scraping lightly before his tongue soothed over the sting. The sound that left me was quiet but raw, and his answering hum vibrated against my skin, sinking even deeper.
His mouth stayed at my throat, breathing heat over my skin as his hand slid higher along my thigh, thumb hooking just inside the waistband of my trousers. He paused there for a heartbeat, the weight of his palm resting against me, as if giving me the chance to pull back.
When I didn't, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband and under the fabric of my briefs. The first touch of his skin to mine was electric—warm, solid, a slow curl of fingers wrapping around my cock. My breath caught hard against his shoulder, my hands gripping him tighter.
He stroked once, slow from base to tip, his thumb brushing over the head to smear the first bead of slick across sensitive skin. The drag of his palm was maddening, deliberate, and the lack of fabric between us made every motion sharper. My hips lifted into his grip before I could stop them, chasing the heat of his hand.
Elias kissed me again, slower now but deeper, his tongue moving against mine in time with the slow pump of his hand. Every shift of his wrist made the kiss falter, made me breathe into his mouth, and he swallowed each sound I gave him.
His grip was firm without being rough, his fingers tightening just enough on the downstroke, loosening on the way back up. The movement was unhurried, but each pass fed the ache building low in my stomach. His other hand stayed braced beside me on the couch, keeping me pinned in that narrow space between the cushions and his body.
I broke from his mouth to draw in a breath, but he chased me, his lips brushing the corner of mine before finding them again. The taste of him mixed with the rising heat in my head, the kind that made my thoughts slow to nothing but the slide of his hand and the press of his body between my legs.
His thumb circled lazily over the head, spreading more slick, and my head tipped back, a low sound escaping me. I could feel every beat of my pulse in his grip, each one matched by the steady rhythm of his hand. My thighs clenched around his hips, holding him there, not wanting even an inch of space between us.
The music swelled in the background, but it felt far away—all I could focus on was the glide of his palm, the slow tightening in my gut, the way his mouth kept finding mine in between breaths like he couldn't stand to stop tasting me.
His thumb pressed a little firmer over the head, rubbing in slow, precise circles that made my thighs tense involuntarily. The rest of his fingers curled and stroked in an even rhythm, dragging the heat higher with every pass. I could feel slick gathering along his palm, the glide of it making each movement smoother, hotter.
I tried to kiss him back, but my focus fractured with each deliberate pump of his hand. My mouth opened against his, my breath spilling out in uneven bursts that he swallowed without hesitation. His tongue slid past my lips again, coaxing mine in time with the slow drag of his fist, until my hips were lifting into his touch in short, needy jolts.
The couch's edge bit faintly into my back, grounding me against the relentless warmth of him pressed between my legs. He shifted his knees closer, caging me in tighter, his chest flush to mine now, every exhale from him spilling over my cheek. The cedar on his skin was sharper here, threaded through with the salt of sweat and the heat building between us.
His strokes lengthened, dragging from base to tip with just enough twist at the end to make my stomach clench. His other hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face so he could look at me. "There," he murmured, low, like he was marking the moment, and then his mouth was back on mine, devouring every sound I gave him.
The tension wound impossibly tight, my thighs trembling against his hips, my cock throbbing in his fist. The slick sounds of his strokes were nearly buried under our breathing, the faint rustle of clothes, and the swell of strings from the speaker. My vision blurred at the edges when the pressure broke—heat spilling across his knuckles in sharp, pulsing waves, my body clenching around the release as if trying to hold onto it.
He slowed but didn't let go until the last shiver passed through me. When he finally drew his hand back, his palm was warm and wet. Without a word, he reached for the small box of tissues on the table, tugged one free, and pressed it into my hand. Our fingers brushed in the exchange, the touch steady and deliberate, almost as if he didn't want to let that contact go.
I cleaned myself quickly, the taste of him still faint at the back of my throat, now mixed with the raw, heavy smell of tension hanging in the air. The tissue hit the couch beside us. My pulse was still uneven, the sweat cooling on my skin, the solid weight of him close enough that every small shift reminded me exactly what we'd just done.