Chapter 9
1199words
But then came the private moments.
Three days after our return, my office door opened without a knock. Morris strode in, closed the door, and collapsed into the chair across from my desk.
"If I have to listen to Henderson explain his 'vision' one more time, I might actually commit a felony," he announced.
I grinned, setting aside my work. "Good afternoon to you too, boss."
"He used the word 'synergy' seventeen times. I counted." He loosened his tie. "Seventeen. That should be grounds for immediate termination."
"Harsh but fair."
"And Michaels keeps sending passive-aggressive emails about the retreat outcomes. As if trust falls somehow didn't transform our corporate culture overnight."
I leaned back in my chair, enjoying this unfiltered version of Morris. "Shocking."
He ran a hand through his hair, messing up its perfect styling. "I need the Henderson proposal revised by tomorrow. The board meeting was moved up."
"Is that why you're really here? Work?"
His eyes met mine. "No."
The admission hung between us.
"I brought lunch," I said, opening my desk drawer and pulling out a container. "Made extra this morning."
His expression softened. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know." I pushed it toward him. "Chicken pasta. Nothing fancy."
He accepted it with a nod that contained more gratitude than words could express. We ate together, Morris continuing his commentary on our colleagues' foibles. I'd never seen him so animated, so genuinely himself.
This became our routine. In public, we maintained professional distance. In private—my office with the door closed, late nights when everyone else had gone home—Morris dropped the mask.
A week later, I found him in the break room at 9 PM, staring at the coffee machine like it had personally offended him.
"It's empty," he said without turning around. "How is it empty?"
"Because normal people go home at 5." I moved beside him, taking the pot. "Let me."
He watched as I made a fresh pot, his eyes following my movements with unusual intensity.
"You're staying late again," he observed.
"Someone has to make sure the CEO doesn't work himself to death."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No, you need someone to remind you that food and sleep are requirements, not suggestions."
He didn't argue, which was telling. When the coffee finished brewing, I poured him a cup, then opened the refrigerator.
"I have leftover stir-fry," I said. "Enough for two."
"You keep food here?"
"Started to. For nights like this."
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe gratitude.
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," I cut him off gently. "I want to."
While I heated the food in the microwave, Morris leaned against the counter, watching me.
"Why?" he asked finally.
"Why what?"
"Why do you care if I eat? If I sleep? None of this benefits you."
I turned to face him. "Does everything have to benefit me?"
"In my experience, yes." His voice was matter-of-fact. "People do things for gain."
"Then your experience has been shit." I handed him a plate. "Eat."
He took it, our fingers brushing. Neither of us pulled away immediately.
I moved closer, until we were standing inches apart.
Morris's eyes met mine, vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be at work. "I haven't taken my suppressants since the retreat."
The admission stunned me. "Morris—"
"I couldn't." His voice dropped to a whisper. "They made me... I couldn't feel anything on them. Not really."
My hand moved of its own accord, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "And now?"
"Now I feel everything." His eyes held mine. "It's terrifying."
We were standing too close, the air between us electric. I could smell his scent—stronger now without suppressants, woodsy and warm with an undercurrent of something uniquely him.
"Morris," I breathed, not sure what I was asking for.
His phone rang, shattering the moment. Again.
He closed his eyes briefly before answering. "Lawson."
I stepped back, giving him space, taking my plate to the small break room table. Morris's conversation was brief, his responses clipped.
"Board wants the presentation tomorrow morning instead," he said after hanging up. "I need to revise it tonight."
Just like that, the mask was back in place. But not completely—there was a softness around his eyes that hadn't been there before.
"I'll help," I offered. "Two sets of eyes are better than one."
He hesitated, then nodded. "My office. After we eat."
We worked until midnight, side by side at his conference table. As the night wore on, Morris gradually relaxed, his commentary on board members growing increasingly unfiltered and hilarious.
When we finally finished, I stood and stretched. "That should impress even your father."
Morris's smile faded. "Nothing impresses my father."
I moved behind him, placing my hands on his shoulders without thinking. He tensed, then relaxed as I kneaded the knots in his muscles.
"You're too tense," I murmured.
"Occupational hazard." His voice was strained, but he didn't pull away.
"You need to relax more."
"Says who?"
"Says the guy currently keeping your shoulders from permanently fusing with your ears."
He laughed softly, head dropping forward as my thumbs worked a particularly tight spot. The sound he made—half-groan, half-sigh—sent heat coursing through me.
"Noah," he said, voice rough.
"Hmm?"
"We shouldn't..."
My hands stilled. "Shouldn't what?"
He turned in his chair, looking up at me. For once, his expression was completely unguarded—want and fear and longing all mixed together.
"This," he gestured between us, "is complicated."
"Doesn't feel complicated to me." I kept my voice light, though my heart was racing.
"I'm your boss."
"Yes."
"I'm an Omega."
"I noticed."
"My father is strict."
"Not seeing the connection."
He stood abruptly, putting distance between us. "The connection is that I've spent fifteen years building this life, this company, this identity. I can't risk it all because—"
"Because what?" I pressed when he stopped.
"Because I can't think straight when you're around," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him. "Because you make me want things I can't have."
I stepped closer. "What things?"
"Noah, don't."
"Tell me what you want, Morris."
His eyes met mine, amber flecks visible in the low light. "I want—"
A security guard's knock interrupted us. "Evening check, Mr. Lawson. Everything okay?"
Morris stepped back, composing himself instantly. "Fine, George. We're just finishing up."
"Night, sir."
After the guard left, the moment was broken. Morris began gathering his papers, walls firmly back in place.
"You should go home," he said, not looking at me. "Big day tomorrow."
I wanted to argue, to push, to make him finish what he'd been about to say. But I recognized the shutdown for what it was—fear.
"Morris," I said softly.
"Goodnight, Noah." His tone left no room for discussion.
I nodded, accepting the dismissal for now. "Goodnight."
At the door, I paused. "For what it's worth, I think the real Morris Lawson is worth any risk."
I didn't wait for his response.
