I huff a laugh that feels more like a cough. The office is a wreck, a state of organized disaster that I both curate and endure. Keller Industries is covered in the debris of thefinal crunch for Starlight Falls III and a mixture of family shenanigans because it makes me happy to see this as an extension of the house.
Empty pizza boxes are stacked like a cardboard version of Jenga near the breakroom. There are more cables on the floor than there are floor tiles. Toys are sprawled across the nest in the corner, under my desk and by the door. It's chaotic, loud, and smells slightly of burnt ozone and desperation. It's mine. I built this from a single laptop and a caffeine addiction so I could make my family untouchable, and if the cost is a permanent twitch in my eyelid and a heart that skips beats like a scratched CD, I'll pay it.
James is currently sitting under my desk, his tongue poked out in concentration as he tries to dismantle a broken controller with a plastic spoon. I’m already dreading what happens when he starts figuring out how to dismantle something that’s more important. Samuel, on the other hand, is currently being chased away from the server room door by my lead artist. I can hear his indignant shout from across the pit.
"But there are wires! I need to see the juice!"
I should probably intervene, but my inbox pings with a priority flag from the localization team. The headache behind my right eye pulses again. I just need more water and maybe a twenty-minute window where nobody says the word'optimization.' I ignore the way my vision blurs at the edges, focusing instead on the small human currently trying to peel a piece of tape off my arm.
"Daddy, look at the screen," Rosalie commands, pointing a chubby finger at the dev environment. "Where am I?"
I soften, the irritation draining out of me just enough to let me navigate through the debug menu. I click through three layers of hidden scripts, bypassing the main game world into a tiny,rendered pocket that no player will ever find without digging through the source code.
It's a small glade, filled with bioluminescent flowers that glow in the specific shade of cornflower blue Luca uses for his nesting blankets. In the center, three tiny NPCs are gathered around a pile of pixelated books.
One is a small, stout knight with a crown exactly like Rosalie's. One is an alchemist surrounded by gears, a perfect James. The third is a rogue with a cape made of a literal juice box wrapper, Samuel. Behind them, a much taller NPC is attempting to braid a warrior's hair, the braid so lopsided and messy it's an unmistakable tribute to Luther's failed attempts at doing Rosalie's hair on Tuesday mornings.
Rosalie gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. "That's me! And Jamey! And Sammy! And Papa making a mess!" She shrieks with a delight so piercing it probably clears out the deli three floors down. She bounces on my lap, her crown finally tumbling off and clattering onto the desk. "I'm in the magic! Daddy, I'm in the magic!"
"You're the heart of the magic, Rosie-girl," I whisper, kissing the top of her head. My chest feels tight, but for once it isn't the erratic thrum of my pulse. It's the weight of them. Everything I do, every line of code, every late night, is for this. To keep them in the magic. To make sure the world can never reach them again. I want to build a fortress out of pixels and profit, something so sturdy that the shadows of our past can't even find the door.
The office door swings open, the heavy glass thudding against the rubber stopper. I don't even have to look up to know who it is. The air in the room shifts, warming by five degrees as the scent of sun-warmed cedar and bright ozone rolls over the cubicles. Grayson is here. Which means I'm officially in trouble.
He's carrying a stack of brown paper bags that smell like actual, nutritious food, and he's wearing that look. The one where his ocean-gray eyes are soft but his jaw is set in a way that suggests he's prepared to physically carry me out of the building.
"Your husband called," Grayson says, pushing out a heavy sigh afterwards. "He wanted me to remind you that married people eat lunch."
I smirk, still loving that Luca isn’t just my Omega or my mate after five years. He’s myhusband."Tell my husband I'm aware of the concept."
"Tell him yourself. He's checking your sugar log from the house and threatening to drive over." When I don’t respond, Grayson speaks again. "Blake," he says, saying it like a complete sentence, a warning, and a plea all wrapped into one. He doesn't stop until he's standing right behind my chair, his presence a solid, radiating heat against my back.
"I'm working, Gray," I say, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "The French build is--"
"The French build will still be broken in twenty minutes," Grayson interrupts, his hand coming down to rest on my shoulder. His thumb traces the line of my neck. "You look like you're made of glass, babe. You’re going to shatter at some point if you keep going at this rate."
He reaches down, scooping Rosalie off my hip with one arm as if she weighs nothing. She giggles, shoving her sticky highlighter into his pocket. "Daddy's being a grumpy boss, Gray-Gray. He needs a snack."
"He really does," Grayson murmurs. He leans down, pressing his face into the space between my neck and shoulder. He breathes me in, a deep, grounding drag of air that makes my eyes flutter shut against my will. "Eat. Now. Or I'm calling Luther and telling him you're ignoring your meds again."
"That's low," I mutter, even as I let him pull me back from the monitors. "Tattling is for the kids."
"Whatever works," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. His lips are warm, and for a second, I want to just lean into him and let the servers crash. I want to be the one on the beanbag chair, dreaming of nothing but blue flowers. "Come on. Conference room. I brought the good fries from the place on 5th."
I stand up, my knees cracking loud enough to make James look out from under the desk. A wave of dizziness washes over me, a slow, tilting vertigo that makes the room shimmer at the edges. I grab the edge of the desk, my knuckles white. Grayson's hand is on the small of my back in an instant, steadying me without making a scene of it.
"I'm fine," I lie. It's a reflex now. "Just stood up too fast."
Grayson doesn't argue. He just keeps his hand on my back, ushering me toward the glass-walled conference room. James crawls out from under the desk, clutching his dismantled controller like a prize, and Samuel appears from behind a stack of monitors, his face smudged with something that looks suspiciously like graphite.
I nearly get across the hall when my phone buzzes and I pull it out. The email is from a domain I recognize but haven't seen in years.Hale & Vale Studio Partnership Group.
I tap it open. It's a formal pitch deck, the kind of glossy, high-production document that reeks of old-guard Alpha money and corporate boardrooms.
Strategic Partnership Opportunity: Keller Industries & Starlight Falls.
I skim the first few slides, my eyes darting over the corporate speak. Global distribution. Animation rights. A merchandising infrastructure that could put a Starlight Falls plushie in every store from London to Tokyo. Social impact opportunities, my heart stutters at that one.
I push through the door to the conference table where the food is, taking a seat but still focused on my phone. I continue skimming, impressed when they mention Ember House, Luca’s Hearthstone project, he’s been all too fond of since Luther took him over to the sanctuary.
