"You're still in here," he says.
I don't look up. "I'm working."
He comes in anyway, because Grayson's never been impressed by my attempts at dismissal. He carries a plate in one hand and a glass of water in the other, moving carefully through the office as if suddenness might make me bolt. When he reaches the desk, he sets the plate down beside my keyboard, close enough that I can't pretend not to see it. Sandwiches, sliced fruit, something with melted cheese because he knows I'll eat melted cheese before I admit I'm hungry.
His gaze moves over the open deck, the untouched food, the empty coffee mug near my elbow, then lands on my face. "You missed dinner."
"I was coming down."
"You said that two hours ago."
I drag my attention from the screen long enough to look at him. His long hair's pulled back badly, loose strands falling around his face, and his ocean-gray eyes are soft in the way that means he's worried enough to be careful. That gentleness makes my throat feel worse.
"I just need to finish this section," I say, turning back to the deck because looking at him makes it harder to keep the whole argument upright. "If I can reframe the sanctuary's distributionrights and strip out the impact language, Victor won't have room to leverage Ember House without triggering breach protections."
Grayson doesn't answer right away. He pulls the spare chair close to mine and sits beside me instead, his knee brushing my thigh. The contact's small, but my body notices it before I can stop it. His hand comes to the back of my head, fingers slipping into my curls with slow pressure, and the ache behind my eyes pulses once.
"You're shaking," he says quietly.
"I'm not."
His fingers still for a second, then continue their careful path through my hair. He doesn't argue with the lie. That's worse than if he had. He reaches for the water and puts it in my hand, waiting until my fingers close around the glass.
I take one sip to get him to stop watching me like that. It doesn't work.
The door clicks softly behind him, and the room changes again.
Luther enters without speaking. He's taken off his suit jacket, and his shirtsleeves are rolled to his forearms, the ink there dark beneath the lamplight. He closes the door with a quiet finality, then crosses the room with his eyes on the laptop. On the deck. On me.
I know that look. The stillness before he decides whether to lead, hold, or tear something apart.
"Don't," I say before he reaches the desk. "I'm almost done."
Luther stops beside my chair. His gaze flicks to Grayson's hand in my hair, the water in my grip, the plate I haven't touched. Then he looks at the screen.
Principal Authority: Luther Keller.
Founder / Creative Lead: Blake Keller.
His jaw tightens.
I feel the argument rise in me before he says anything, defensive and exhausted and already fraying. "We need this deal, Luther. We need the security. You saw the endowment projections. You saw the localization structure. You saw what they could take off our plate if Maceo locks down the access clauses."
"I saw it," he says.
His voice is calm enough that my chest tightens. Luther's calm is never indifference. It's control applied with both hands.
He reaches past me and closes the laptop.
The screen goes black. The sudden absence of white light leaves the office softer, smaller, held inside the amber glow of the desk lamp. My first breath after it closes shakes more than I want either of them to hear.
"I wasn't done," I say, but the anger doesn't land the way I mean it to. My hands are unsteady on the glass. My head hurts. Grayson's fingers are still in my hair, and Luther's standing close enough that his scent begins to push the office out of my lungs.
"I know," Luther says. "That's the problem."
Grayson shifts nearer, his chair scraping softly across the floor. He reaches for the plate, tears off a small piece of sandwich, and holds it in front of me without turning it into a demand. "Eat first. Argue after."
"I can feed myself."
