@mochabunny_
Saw these two on 5th Ave this morning holding hands 😭🫶
Love like this one day pls god
[ photo attached ]
Comments:
💬 doublelatte: GOD WHEN??? 😭😭
💬 marlene_xo: hold up, isn't that Kaida Lovelace's ex?
💬 teaandtears: also the ex of that pop star, what's her name again?
💬 mythicgoss: Hayley Augusta
💬 bobbythegoblin: so he's a heartbreaker. girl RUN lol
💬 softsurprise: tbh they're kinda cute ngl
💬 knotmyproblem: she's got no social media wtf who IS she
💬 crimsonahh: heard she's his secretary. Like hello, HR?
***
I wake up in my own bed, the familiar weight of my comforter and the faint smell of lavender from my pillow. The last thing I remember clearly is the star-filled sky of Treasure Planet and the warmth of Malachai's hand in mine.
He brought me home. Which means he carried me, got me into my apartment, and put me to bed. The logistics of that—how he got my keys, the fact that he was in here, how tired I must have been to not have noticed—pounds at the back of my skull. But, before I can think about it, my stomach lets out a low, demanding growl, deciding my priorities for me.
I shuffle out of bed, grabbing my phone from my bedside table. He'd left it charging. Of course he did. The man was infuriatingly competent.
I pad into the kitchen, mentally inventorying my fridge. Did I stock up properly on groceries? I don't want to have to cook right now? Do I have any leftovers? I'm halfway to the appliance when I stop dead.
Sitting on my counter is a white plastic takeout container. Stuck on top of it is a small, square, standard Shaw Holdings sticky note.
'Because popcorn isn't a total substitute for lunch. -M.'
My heart does a thing. A flip. A squeeze. Something entirely unwelcome.
I peel the note off. The container is from a place called Bacco, and beneath the blocky script, it reads: Home of the best carbonara in Seattle.
My heart does another thing. This one feels suspiciously like a flutter.
I press my hand against my chest, as if I could physically still the traitorous organ, and open the fridge to see if there's anything to eat that won't remind me of that man. In it is a Cabernet Sauvignon I did not put there with yet another note.
'Drink responsibly :)'
I slam my fridge shut with a strangled cry.
It's too early to fall in love with Malachai Shaw! I cannot fall in love with Malachai Shaw! That would be unethical. Unprofessional. Catastrophic!
Sure, he's just a complex, multifaceted person instead of the one-dimensional asshole I'd pigeonholed him as. Surprise and… fascination… do not translate to love.
I will eat this carbonara, and I will do it without thinking about his capacity for quiet, thoughtful acts that make me feel seen and cared for, dammit!
With renewed indignation, I pop the container into the microwave. While it whirs, I tap open my phone. The screen is a disaster zone of notifications. The family group chat is buzzing with inane details about Chloe's wedding colors. A separate DM from Chloe herself: Juju! Bridesmaid brunch is on Friday! You're coming, right?!!!
My thumb hovers over Malachai's number. Calling him feels dangerously close to intimacy—real intimacy—the kind we didn't write into the contract.
But I have to thank him. It's basic manners.
I press call before I can lose my nerve.
It rings twice, then connects to a wall of noise. Gruff, male voices. "Hurry up and pick that up!"
"Move! Move!"
Then Malachai's voice, sharp and cold as a shard of ice, cuts through the chaos. "If you drop that, I'll have your head on a pike."
The sound sends a chill straight down my spine. This is the Malachai people are afraid of.
A moment later, his voice is closer, softer, directed into the receiver. "Juniper?"
"You sound busy," I manage, my own voice thin.
"It's just some work stuff."
"I'm assuming it's not the legal one."
Heavy and telling silence holds court between us.
"The fact that you're not denying it…" I press.
He lets out a rough sigh. "What do you want me to say, Juniper? I never claimed to be a saint."
"I know that," I say, strongly.
"But I'm not a criminal, either."
"I doubt that."
He chuckles, and the sound is a dark, velvety thing. "And contrary to popular opinion, I'm not in the mafia."
Heat floods my cheeks. I ignore his statement, steering us back to safer ground. "I called to thank you. For bringing me home. For the lunch—well, dinner now—and for… today. In general. I had a good time."
Warmth seeps into his voice, resting there like the rich finish of a good wine. "So did I."
I sink onto a barstool, tucking my knee to my chest. "That thing you said… about your childhood," careful, Juniper. Careful. "That it was hell. Were you being honest, or were you fucking with me?"
A door shuts on his end, and the background noise vanishes, leaving only the quiet intensity of his presence. "Why would I 'fuck with you' about something like that?"
"I don't know," I groan, pushing loose tendrils of hair from my face. "You're not obligated to be honest with me."
"Our agreement can't work without honesty," he says, his voice hard.
Our 'agreement' is the last thing I want to think about. "Malachai…" I sigh, frustrated.
Maybe it's my tone, or the use of his name, but I hear a faint hiss—the sound of him settling into a leather chair. "I wasn't joking," he says, his voice weary. "My childhood was one of hardship, but I like to believe it's in the past. What about yours?"
He's deflecting, but I don't call him on it. I shrug a shoulder as if he can see the motion. "Mine was fine."
"Why did you say it like it was anything but fine?"
"It wasn't hell on earth or anything. My parents were parents; they fed me, made sure I was clean, clothed me, made sure I received an education."
"But?" he prompts.
"Who says there's a but?"
"I can hear it in your voice. So… what is it?"
The microwave beeps. I retrieve the carbonara, but my appetite has fled. Despite this, I force myself to open the container and take a bite. The smell hits me first—creamy, peppery, warm. It's delicious and comforting.
"I always just got the feeling that they did those things because they had to. Because it was illegal not to. I thanked them for taking care of me, always, but I was somehow never grateful enough."
The food turns to ash in my mouth, but the words won't stop. "There were moments they'd just… forget me. At school, at the mall, at the park. I eventually learned to make my way home—I used to love looking at picture books during drives, but I stopped. I started looking out the window, learning the turns and the recognizable buildings. Just in case they forgot again."
I stab my fork into the pasta. "Before that, though, I'd be where they left me for hours. Sitting in one spot, too scared to move. Crying. Wondering if I'd ever find my way home. Thinking about the things they'd say, about the differences in how Chloe was treated and how I was treated. Knowing they weren't going to come for me."
Another pause. A lifetime of waiting on a cold bench. "Sometimes, a police officer or a security guard would find me. Sometimes, a good samaritan. I remember the look in my parents' eyes whenever I was brought home. Like, 'Oh shit, you exist?' I got so used to it that it didn't even hurt when they finally shipped me off to boarding school."
"Juniper," he says, his voice impossibly soft. "I'm so sorry."
I shake my head, as if I can dislodge the memories. "It's fine. I mean, what's parental neglect that a little therapy can't fix, eh?"
"Deflecting with humour won't help," he deadpans.
"Crying over it won't help either!" I counter, my voice cracking. "If I don't laugh about it, I'll cry. So let me laugh, okay?"
He's silent for a moment, then, with sudden, fierce conviction: "Your parents are shitheads."
A surprised, wet laugh bursts out of me. "Shitheads?"
"I could've used far worse words."
A real smile finds its way to my lips. "Who are you, Malachai Shaw?"
There's a shift on his end, a rustle of movement. "I wonder the same."
I shake my head, my eyes drifting back to the sticky note on my counter. "You're not what I thought you were. And you're not what everyone says you are."
"What do they say I am?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Ruthless. A corporate shark. A heartbreaker.
Cold. Calculating. Cruel.
I whisper the one that matters most. "Dangerous."
"Are you afraid of me?"
"I'm confused," I admit. "I'm not sure what to think anymore."
"Then know this," he says, his voice low and absolute. "I'll never hurt you. And I'll make sure to keep you safe."
I remember our argument in the office before Sloane stormed in. 'Keep me safe' from, what exactly?
"Do I really need security?"
"I won't force you to have guards following you," he says, and it feels like a concession. "But if anything were to happen to you, I wouldn't forgive myself. Just… think about it. Okay?"
And because he's been so disarming, so unexpectedly sweet, I relent. "Yeah. I'll think about it."
A comfortable silence stretches between us, filled only by the sound of our breathing.
"I'm sorry," I say into the quiet. "For what I said, about you being famous for being loveless. It was rude and uncalled for."
He laughs, a hollow sound. "It's fine. You weren't exactly wrong. I've had multiple relationships in the past. None really worked out, not for lack of trying." Another humorless laugh. "At least I can't possibly fuck this one up, right?"
The words land like a physical blow. Yeah. He can't. Because we're stuck with each other.
A door slams open on his end. "Boss! There's been an emergency!"
Malachai mutters something I can't hear, then speaks to me. "I have to go now."
"Okay. I understand. Good luck with… whatever." I cringe at my own awkwardness.
"I'm glad you called," he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes my heart do that thing again. A full-on, undeniable somersault. Goddammit.
"I'm glad I called too."
It feels like he wants to say something else, something more. But when he speaks again, it's to remind me of what's really important:
"I wanted to save this for tomorrow but I should tell you now; my family would like to meet you."