We get them out of my office in pieces, the way everything with children happens. Luca carries the blue blanket because he refuses to leave it behind. Blake gathers James's notebook andthe ice cream carrier, then has to stop because Rosalie demands her rabbit from under the desk. Maceo retrieves it without comment. Grayson carries James, slower now, his shoulder brushing mine as he passes. I carry Samuel, whose fist stays tangled in my jacket until he's fully asleep.
At the doorway, I look back once.
The nest remains under my desk, dented by the shape of Luca and the boys. The rug's folded wrong. A pillow's wedged against the inner panel. Samuel's magnifying glass lies near the chair leg.
I leave it exactly as it is.
The rest room's only a short walk down the hall, and by the time we settle the children there, most of them are barely awake. Rosalie curls between the boys and immediately complains that Samuel smells like ice cream. Samuel says she smells like bossing. James opens one eye, tells them both that sleeping requires silence, and then falls back under before either of them can answer. Luca tucks the blue blanket around them with careful hands. Blake sits at the edge of the low bed for a moment, empty-handed and too still.
I rest my hand at the back of his neck as I pass. His pulse jumps beneath my palm. He doesn't tell me he's fine this time. That alone is progress.
When I return to my office, Grayson stays in the hall with Luca and the children, and Maceo resumes his place near the door without needing instruction. The quiet in my office feels different now. It's no longer the clean absence that sent panic through me. It's the aftermath of bodies that chose shelter and left proof behind.
I sit carefully, keeping the footwell undisturbed, and pull the merger deck toward me. The numbers are still bad. The timelines are still aggressive. The projections still matter because Blake's right about what the deal could give us if it wereclean. But the language is where the intent lives, and once I read it with the nest beneath my desk, the polish starts to peel.
Family-forward trust. Sanctuary visibility. Authentic recovery. Survivor-centered engagement. Partnership narrative. The phrases sit in neat lines, professional and harmless until I measure them against Rosalie hiding her face in my jacket, James watching Dorian's hands, Samuel naming him shiny because that was the closest word he had for wrong. Harmless until I remember Luca building a den under my desk and Blake's pulse tripping beneath his skin every time Victor routes authority around him.
I pick up my pen and begin cutting into the first page.
When Victor's assistant calls again, I let the phone ring until it stops.
11
Maceo
The office light's too sharp, making the corners of the room feel harder than they should. I lean against the oak doorframe with my arms crossed, watching Grayson smile like the expression's been placed there by hand. His mouth curves when Luther says something low enough for only the room to hear, but the smile doesn't settle into his eyes. His shoulders stay lifted, and his fingers keep moving against the cuff of his sleeve, rubbing once, stopping, then starting again when he thinks no one's looking.
Luther sees it too. He stands near the window with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, the city light catching on the dark ink along his skin. He doesn't look at me, but he knows I'm there. Luther always knows where the door is, and today, so do I. His attention stays on Grayson as he says his name, low and even, and Grayson's head comes up with the alertness of someone bracing for the next thing to handle.
"I'm fine," Grayson says before Luther can finish.
Luther crosses the room slowly, giving Grayson time to refuse and not enough room to make the refusal matter. "You answered too fast." He sets a hand at the side of Grayson's neck, thumb resting beneath his jaw, and Grayson's eyes close for half a second before he forces them open again. "Go to the rest room. Close the door. Sleep."
Grayson's gaze moves toward the hall, already counting the people outside it. "Luca's got the kids, Blake's still in his office, and Samuel was asking you about security cameras because he thinks Dorian planted shiny bugs in the vents."
"The kids are with Luca," I say, stepping into the room before he can build a full argument out of everyone else's needs. "Blake's got three people watching his numbers whether he likes it or not, and Samuel's bug theory's been taken seriously enough for him to feel vindicated."
For a second, Grayson almost laughs. The sound catches halfway through and turns into a breath instead. He looks exhausted in a way he'd deny if either of us named it too gently. His hair's slipped loose around his face, and there's a faint crease between his brows from holding too many worries at once. Luther bends and kisses his forehead, brief but firm, and Grayson stills under it like his body's been waiting for permission to stop.
"Maceo will go with you," Luther says. "Lock the door."
Grayson opens his eyes. "I don't need a guard."
"No," I say, coming to stand at his side. "You need someone who knows you'll try to reorganize pillows, check on Luca, answer three messages, and call it resting."
His gaze flicks to mine, tired recognition cutting through the protest before he can shape it. Luther's hand falls from his neck, but he stays close enough that Grayson can't pretend either of us has missed the way he's swaying on his feet. "One hour, Gray," Luther says. "More if you sleep."
Grayson looks between us, then toward the hall again, where the low noise of the office presses against the glass. I can see the exact moment he stops arguing because he doesn't have enough energy to make the argument useful. "All right," he says quietly, and I place my hand at his lower back to guide him out before he can turn surrender into another task.
The office rest room sits behind the main lounge, small and windowless, with a leather sofa along one wall, a narrow cabinet, and a stack of wool blankets that smell like home because Luca keeps replacing them no matter how many times the cleaning service folds them wrong. It's meant for short breaks during crunch weeks. Today, with the building too bright and the air outside too full of strangers, it feels more like a room with edges. I close the door behind us and turn the deadbolt. The click's soft, but Grayson hears it. His shoulders drop another fraction.
"You're hovering," he says, though he doesn't move away from me. His hand goes to the back of his neck, fingers pushing through the tangled fall of his hair. "I can feel you doing it."
"I'm standing."
"You have different kinds of standing."
I check the water carafe on the side table because it gives my hands something useful to do. Full. Two glasses. Blanket within reach. Door locked. Room quiet. When I turn back, Grayson's watching me with an expression softer than the words he used a moment ago. He sinks onto the edge of the sofa, elbows on hisknees, and the whole shape of him changes once he's no longer upright for everyone else.
