Chapter 13
1040words
We'd fallen into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural. Weekdays were split between our professional lives and our increasingly domestic evenings. Weekends became precious time when we could simply be together without the pressure of work personas.
One Saturday morning, I woke to find Morris's side of the bed empty. Unusual—he typically slept later than me on weekends, making up for his punishing weekday schedule. I followed the sound of quiet cursing to the kitchen.
Morris stood at the stove, spatula in hand, glaring at what appeared to be a failed attempt at pancakes. A light dusting of flour covered the counter, and the faint smell of burning batter hung in the air.
"Morning," I said, trying not to laugh at the uncharacteristic disarray.
He turned, frustration evident in his expression. "This is ridiculous. I run a multi-billion dollar company. I should be able to make simple pancakes."
I moved behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my chin on his shoulder. "The pancake industry is notoriously challenging."
"Don't patronize me," he grumbled, but leaned back into my embrace.
"Never." I pressed a kiss to his neck. "But maybe I can help?"
Together, we salvaged breakfast—his burned attempts discarded, a fresh batch made under my guidance. As we ate on the balcony, Morris seemed unusually contemplative.
"My mother used to make pancakes on Sundays," he said suddenly. "Before she died. It's one of the few memories I have of her."
I reached across the table, taking his hand. Morris rarely spoke about his mother, who had passed when he was eight.
"She was an Omega too," he continued. "My father... he wasn't cruel, exactly, but he had expectations. She was meant to be decorative, supportive. Never her own person."
"Is that why you fought so hard against your own nature?"
He nodded slowly. "I saw what happened to her. How small her world became. I promised myself I'd never be contained like that."
"Being an Omega doesn't have to mean being contained," I said gently.
"I know that. Intellectually." He sighed. "But fifteen years of conditioning is hard to break."
"You're doing it though. Every day."
His eyes met mine, vulnerable in the morning light. "Because of you."
"No," I squeezed his hand. "With me, maybe. But this journey is yours, Morris. I'm just lucky enough to witness it."
That afternoon, we did something we'd never done before—absolutely nothing. No work emails, no business calls, no discussion of office politics. Instead, we sprawled on his ridiculously comfortable couch, reading and occasionally sharing passages that amused us.
Morris, I discovered, was surprisingly funny when relaxed—his commentary on my choice of mystery novel both scathing and hilarious.
"The detective is clearly incompetent," he declared after I summarized the plot. "The gardener has been suspicious since page twelve."
"You can't possibly know that."
"Watch me." He smirked, settling more comfortably against me.
As evening approached, Morris grew restless. "We should do something."
"We are doing something. It's called relaxing. You might have heard of it."
He rolled his eyes. "I mean something... normal. What do couples usually do on Saturday nights?"
The casual use of "couples" to describe us made my heart skip. "Dinner? Movie? Dancing if you're feeling wild."
"Dancing is definitely out," he said firmly. "But dinner... somewhere quiet? Where we won't run into anyone from work?"
I sat up straighter. "Are you asking me on a date, Morris Lawson?"
"Is that so surprising?"
"A little, yeah." I grinned. "The secretive CEO willing to be seen in public with his employee?"
He looked away. "If you'd rather not—"
"Hey." I caught his chin, turning his face back to mine. "I'd love to go to dinner with you. Anywhere you want."
We found a small Italian restaurant in a neighborhood far from our usual business haunts. The lighting was dim, the booths private, the food exceptional. Morris relaxed visibly once he confirmed no familiar faces were present.
Over wine and pasta, he told me more about his childhood—the rigid expectations, the constant pressure to be perfect, the crushing disappointment when he presented as Omega.
"My father had my entire life planned," he said, twirling pasta around his fork. "Harvard Business School, then gradually taking over the family investments. When I turned sixteen and the first signs appeared... everything changed."
"What did he do?"
"Sent me to a special 'academy' for Omega youth. Really just a finishing school teaching submission and proper Omega behavior." His expression darkened. "I lasted three months before running away."
"You ran away at sixteen?" I couldn't hide my surprise. The Morris I knew was so rule-abiding, so controlled.
A small, fierce smile. "Stole my trust fund access codes and disappeared. Enrolled myself in a regular high school across the country. My father found me eventually, of course, but by then I'd proven I could survive on my own."
"What happened?"
"Compromise. I'd attend the business school of his choice if he let me live independently. I started suppressants, created this persona, and never looked back." He took a sip of wine. "Until you."
"Until me," I echoed softly.
His hand found mine across the table. "I never planned for you, Noah Kingsley."
"Best laid plans," I smiled, turning my palm to intertwine our fingers.
Later that night, as we walked back to his building, Morris did something that shocked me—he took my hand, right there on the public sidewalk.
"Morris?"
"No one knows us here," he said simply.
We walked the remaining blocks hand in hand, a simple intimacy that felt more significant than our most passionate moments. When we reached his building, he nodded to the doorman with his usual reserve, but didn't release my hand until we were in the elevator.
That night, as we lay together in the darkness, Morris whispered, "I want to cook for you tomorrow."
"You nearly burned down the kitchen making pancakes," I reminded him.
"I'll order in and pretend I made it."
I laughed, pulling him closer. "Deal."
