"You have to drink all of it. It's for being pale."
The words hit somewhere beneath the work, beneath the anger, beneath the part of me that's spent the morning turning fear into tasks. I lift the cup and pretend to drink, letting the rim touch my mouth. Rosalie watches until she's satisfied, then puts one hand on my knee and pats twice.
"It helped," I tell her, because I need that to be true for one of us.
She doesn't look convinced, but she's kind enough to let me have it. "Snack too."
"I will."
Her eyes narrow.
I set the cup down and turn my chair enough to face her properly. "I mean it. I'm going to finish one thing, and then I'll eat something real."
Rosalie considers me with a look that's far too much like Luther's when he knows I'm negotiating in bad faith. Then she nods once and marches out of the office, crown flashing under the hall light. I watch until she's gone, and for a moment, my hand stays on the plastic cup instead of the keyboard.
Then another message pings.
The temporary nest is in the small sitting room off my home office because Luca couldn’t stand being upstairs while the house kept tightening around all of us. He’s asleep now, worn down by Dorian’s hallway, by Victor’s calls, by everyone trying so hard not to scare him that the effort itself became something he could feel. The door’s half-open. From my desk, I can see the edge of the blankets, one of Grayson’s sweaters tucked against the pillows, and Luca’s hand resting palm-up near the floor.
I've checked on him every few minutes without letting myself go in.
If I go in, I'll stay.
If I stay, the screens go unanswered.
Grayson comes in a little after nine. I know it's him before he speaks because the room changes around him, warmer at the edges, familiar in a way that makes my body want to collapse and fight at the same time. He takes in the desk, the untouched toast, the pink cup, my facedown phone still vibrating, and the open dashboard. He doesn't sigh. He doesn't say my name in that careful way yet. That's how I know he's past gentle concern and moving into something firmer.
"Quentin called me," he says, closing the office door most of the way behind him.
I keep my eyes on the screen. "He worries too much."
"He worries professionally, and right now he's got numbers to back it up." Grayson crosses the room without rushing, but each step pulls my awareness tighter. "I'm not here to argue with you out of caring about the launch, baby. I know you care. I know why you're doing this. But your monitor's been climbing all morning, you declined Quentin twice, and that plate's been sitting there long enough that the toast's starting to look decorative."
My mouth opens around a response that would've been too sharp, so I swallow it and keep typing. "I've got a live issue, three legal revisions, and Victor trying to move the conversation around me in my own company. I need a little more time."
"You always need a little more time when stopping feels worse than hurting yourself." He comes closer, lowering his voice as his gaze shifts toward the half-open sitting-room door. "Luca's asleep?"
"Finally. He came down after breakfast, built the nest in the sitting room, and fell asleep before I could convince him to go back upstairs. "
"I'm going to check on him."
It's ordinary. That's what makes it worse later, how ordinary it is. Grayson steps toward the door with the same careful quiet he always uses when Luca's sleeping. He's not reaching over me. He's not taking anything from me. He's going to check on our mate because Luca's his too, because Grayson loves him, because there's no version of our pack where that should feel like a threat.
My body moves before the rest of me catches up.
I stand too quickly, chair scraping back, one hand catching the desk when the room dips sideways. Grayson stops, already turning toward me, but I'm between him and the door before I understand that I've put myself there. The growl leaves my chestlow and rough, filling the office with a warning I don't mean and can't call back fast enough.
Everything stops.
Grayson goes still with one hand half-raised, his eyes on mine. Not afraid. That almost makes it worse. Shock crosses his face first, then something tighter, the kind of hurt he doesn't usually let sit where anyone can see it. The sound's still in the room, mine and ugly, aimed at the man who was only trying to step into a room where our sleeping mate's curled in blankets because he finally felt safe enough to close his eyes.
The hallway's quiet behind him.
I look past Grayson and see Samuel near the doorway, half-hidden against the frame, his face open with confusion. James stands behind him with the repaired dinosaur pressed against his chest. Rosalie's not there, and the relief that gives me makes the shame worse.
My hip hits the desk when I step back. "Gray."
He lowers his hand slowly. He doesn't pretend nothing happened. He doesn't rush toward me and smooth it over because that'd be easier for both of us and worse for all of us. "Babe," he says, quiet enough that the boys don't hear the shake under it, "I was checking on Luca."
