Chapter 8
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But I caught the moments in between. The slight eye roll when Henderson suggested yet another "innovative approach" to the same old problem. The twitch of his lips when I made a deliberately outrageous suggestion during brainstorming. The way his eyes found mine across the room, sharing a secret joke no one else was privy to.
When he skipped dinner, claiming work calls, I waited fifteen minutes before slipping away from the group. I stopped by the kitchen first, where I charmed the chef into preparing a bowl of soup and some bread.
Morris opened his door after the second knock, already scowling. "I said no disturb—" He stopped when he saw me. "Noah."
"You missed dinner." I held up the tray. "Figured you might be hungry."
He hesitated, then stepped aside to let me in. "I had calls."
"Liar." I set the tray on the desk. "You're avoiding Henderson and his wandering hands."
A ghost of a smile. "Maybe."
"Eat." I pointed to the chair. "Before it gets cold."
He raised an eyebrow. "Are you always this bossy?"
"Only when people skip meals." I sat on the edge of his bed. "Eat."
To my surprise, he complied, sitting at the desk and taking a spoonful of soup. "It's good," he admitted.
"Most food is when you actually consume it."
He shot me a look. "I eat."
"Coffee isn't food."
"Says who?"
"Says basic human nutrition."
He snorted but continued eating. I watched him, noticing how the rigid set of his shoulders gradually relaxed.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked suddenly.
"Doing what?"
"This." He gestured between us. "Bringing me food. Staying last night. All of it."
I considered my answer carefully. "Because someone should."
"That's not an answer."
"Because I want to."
He set down his spoon. "Why?"
"Do I need a reason to care?"
"Yes," he said simply. "People always have reasons."
The sadness behind that statement hit me like a physical blow.
"My mom raised me alone," I said, surprising myself with the personal revelation. "She worked three jobs. I learned to cook when I was nine because otherwise, we wouldn't eat dinner most nights."
Morris watched me, silent.
"I'd make her tea when she got home. Run her a bath sometimes. Little things." I shrugged. "It became habit. Taking care of people I care about."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough."
He looked away, uncomfortable with the sentiment. "The soup's getting cold."
I let him change the subject. We talked about safer topics—the ridiculous retreat activities, office gossip, an upcoming marketing campaign. But something had shifted between us.
When he finished eating, I took the tray and set it outside the door for collection. When I turned back, Morris was standing by the window, moonlight silvering his profile.
"My father never allowed weakness," he said quietly. "Especially not after I presented as Omega. He said I had to be twice as strong, twice as cold, twice as perfect."
I stayed silent, afraid any response would make him stop.
"No one's ever brought me soup before." He laughed, but it sounded painful. "Isn't that pathetic?"
I crossed the room slowly, giving him time to retreat if he wanted. He didn't. When I reached him, I gently turned him to face me.
"It's not pathetic," I said. "It's sad. And it's his loss."
"Noah..." His voice held warning, but he didn't step away.
"You don't have to be perfect here." I reached up, straightening his collar where it had folded wrong. "Not with me."
His breath caught. We were standing too close now, the air between us charged with possibility.
"This is a bad idea," he whispered, even as he leaned slightly toward me.
"Probably," I agreed, my hand still at his collar, thumb brushing the warm skin of his neck.
I pulled him closer, erasing the last inch between us. His eyes fluttered closed as our lips met, tentative at first.
Our lips met softly at first, a brief touch. The gentle pressure of his mouth against mine sent electricity down my spine.
Then he pressed forward, mouth capturing mine with growing urgency. His lips parted, inviting me in. I responded, my tongue sliding against his, exploring.
He bit my lower lip gently, drawing a small sound from my throat. Our breathing quickened as the kiss deepened. His tongue swept into my mouth, meeting mine in a rhythm that made my knees weak.
I tasted him, felt the warmth of his breath mixing with mine. His teeth grazed my lip again, harder this time. My fingers gripped his hair as our mouths moved together, hungry and insistent.
His phone rang, shattering the moment. He jerked back, reaching for it on the nightstand, chest rising and falling rapidly.
The implications hung heavy between us.
"I should go," I said, recognizing his need to process this alone.
He nodded, distracted. But as I reached the door, he called my name.
"Noah?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the soup."
It wasn't what he wanted to say. We both knew it.
"Anytime, Morris. I mean that."
As I closed his door, I leaned against the wall, heart pounding. We’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. And despite every rational thought screaming caution, I couldn’t wait to do it again.
