Chapter 11
912words
Last night had changed everything. The memory of his golden eyes, his unrestrained need, the way he'd said my name—half growl, half plea—sent a shiver through me. I watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, marveling at how different he looked without the weight of his carefully constructed facade.
When his eyes finally fluttered open, I saw the moment awareness returned—confusion, recognition, then a flash of vulnerability quickly masked.
"Morning," I said softly, giving him space to process.
He blinked, eyes returning to their normal color with just hints of amber remaining. "What time is it?"
"Just after eight. How are you feeling?"
He seemed to take inventory of himself, stretching slightly. "Better. The fever's gone."
"Hungry?"
A small nod. I slipped out of bed, pulling on my boxers and t-shirt from the floor.
"I'll make breakfast," I said. "Your kitchen is ridiculously well-equipped for someone who apparently never cooks."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The interior designer insisted."
I leaned down, hesitating briefly before pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Rest. I'll be back."
His kitchen was indeed a marvel of modern design—all gleaming surfaces and high-end appliances that looked untouched. The refrigerator, as expected, contained little more than bottled water and protein shakes.
As I worked, I heard the shower running. By the time Morris appeared in the kitchen doorway, I was plating eggs, bacon, and toast.
He'd dressed in soft gray lounge pants and a simple white t-shirt—so different from his usual armor of tailored suits. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He looked younger, almost uncertain as he hovered at the threshold.
"Sit," I said, nodding toward the counter stools. "Coffee's ready."
He moved with unusual hesitation, as if navigating unfamiliar territory in his own home. Which, in a way, he was—the territory of morning-afters, of intimacy without urgency.
I placed a mug in front of him—black, no sugar—and watched as he wrapped his hands around it, inhaling the steam.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For last night. For staying."
"You don't need to thank me for that."
"I do." His eyes met mine, serious and clear. "What happened... it wasn't just the moon or the heat."
I set a plate in front of him. "I know."
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the morning sun casting long rectangles of light across his minimalist kitchen. I could almost see the thoughts churning behind his carefully neutral expression.
"We should talk about this," he finally said, setting down his fork.
"This being...?"
"Us. What happened. What it means." He ran a hand through his damp hair. "I'm your boss, Noah."
"I'm aware."
"It complicates things."
I took a sip of coffee. "Life is complicated. Doesn't mean it's not worth pursuing."
"The company has policies—"
"Morris," I interrupted gently, "are you trying to talk yourself out of this because you're genuinely concerned about HR policies, or because you're scared?"
His eyes widened slightly at my directness. After a moment, he sighed. "Both, maybe."
I reached across the counter, placing my hand over his. "What are you afraid of?"
He stared at our hands. "Losing control. Losing what I've built. Being seen as... less."
"Because you're an Omega?"
"Because I've spent fifteen years making sure no one sees me as weak." His voice dropped. "And then you walk in and within weeks, I'm... this."
"This being...?"
"Vulnerable," he admitted. "Exposed."
I squeezed his hand. "Only with me. And I don't see vulnerability as weakness, Morris."
He looked up, searching my face. "What do you see it as?"
"Trust. Strength." I smiled slightly. "It takes more courage to let someone in than to keep everyone out."
Something shifted in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a release of tension in his jaw.
"I don't know how to do this," he confessed. "Balance... this... with work. With who I need to be there."
"We figure it out together." I stood, moving around the counter to his side. "Day by day."
He turned on the stool to face me, our knees touching. "I can't be public about this. Not yet. Maybe not for a while."
"I'm not asking you to be."
"But you deserve—"
"What I deserve is to be with someone who wants to be with me," I said firmly. "The rest is details."
He reached up, hesitantly touching my face, as if still unsure he was allowed. "I do want to be with you. That's the clearest thing in this whole mess."
I leaned into his touch. "Then we start there."
His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me down until our foreheads touched. We stayed like that, breathing each other in, the morning light warming our skin.
"Come on," I said after a moment. "Let's take our coffee outside."
I led him to his own balcony—a space he admitted he rarely used despite its spectacular city view. We sat side by side, watching the morning unfold below us, shoulders touching.
"This is nice," he said quietly, as if surprised by the simple pleasure.
I smiled, watching the sunlight catch in his still-damp hair. "It's just the beginning."
