"I know." The words scrape on the way out. I drag a hand over my mouth, then force it down because I don't get to hide behind it. "I know. I'm sorry. You moved toward him, and my body answered before I thought. That's not an excuse. I know it's not an excuse."
Grayson's gaze stays on me for another second, then moves toward the hall. "James, take Samuel downstairs and find Luther. Tell him I need him."
James nods immediately because he understands when adults are using the kind of voice that means questions have to wait. Samuel hesitates, eyes still on me, until James takes his sleeveand guides him away. Their footsteps fade too quickly, and then it's just Grayson and me and the quiet nest room behind my back.
I press my palms flat against the desk behind me. My hands are shaking. I hate that he can see it. I hate more that he's standing farther away than he was before because I made distance necessary. "I'm sorry," I say again, and it's not enough, but it's the only thing I can make my mouth do for a second. "I heard you move toward him, and everything in me went wrong. I know what it sounded like. I know what I did."
Grayson breathes in slowly. He's not calm the way he was when he walked in. He's choosing calm now, building it in front of me because I've left him no other useful option. "I believe that you didn't mean to do it," he says, and the fullness of the sentence hurts more than a quick reassurance would have. "I also need you to understand that meaning it isn't the only thing that matters. You blocked me from our mate, Blake. I'm not angry because you're scared. I'm angry because you've run yourself so far past your limit that your instincts are making decisions before you can."
I nod, but it feels disconnected from the rest of me. "I know."
"I don't think you do. Not all the way." He steps closer then, not toward the nest-room door but toward me, and I stay where I am because moving away would only prove the point again. "You've been trying to outwork a threat for days. You're answering emails instead of Quentin, watching Luca instead of resting with him, and correcting language no one should've sent you in the first place. I know why. I love you for why. But this morning, you scared the kids and yourself, and now you're looking at me like you're waiting for me to decide what kind of man you are. I already know what kind of man you are. That doesn't mean I'm letting you stay in this chair."
The first thing that rises in me is protest. It's familiar enough to be almost comforting. "The launch—"
"No." He says it without snapping, which somehow makes it harder to argue with. "The launch has a team. Luther's got the merger. Maceo can take the laptop. Quentin's got the numbers. You've got a body that's done being ignored."
"My body's inconvenient."
"Your body's yours, and right now it's asking louder than you're willing to."
I look toward the nest-room door. Luca hasn't moved. Or maybe he has and is staying quiet. I can't decide which possibility feels worse. "I need to apologize to him."
"You will. Not while you're shaking in front of a desk and trying to keep one hand on the keyboard."
"I can walk upstairs."
Grayson's face changes, just slightly, and the softness that comes through isn't permission. "Baby, I'm going to carry you upstairs if I have to. I'd rather you put your arm around my neck and let me do it without making this harder on both of us."
"That's not necessary."
"It is, and I think some part of you knows it."
Luther appears in the doorway a minute later, hair damp and Rosalie balanced against his hip, her cheek pressed sleepily to his shoulder. Maceo's behind him, his attention moving over the room in one sweep: desk, screens, phone, toast, my face, Grayson's stance, the half-open door where Luca sleeps. James and Samuel hover near Maceo's legs. No one pushes in. No one talks over anyone else. The restraint in that nearly undoes me.
Luther's gaze settles on Grayson first, then on me. "James said you needed me."
I answer before Grayson can carry it for me. "I growled at him when he tried to check on Luca."
The room absorbs that quietly.
Luther's scent shifts, controlled but immediate. Not anger at me, not exactly, but the weight of the information moving through him. Rosalie lifts her head and looks at me, her crown crooked, her mouth soft with sleep. I can't keep looking at her.
Grayson says, "Quentin's numbers are bad, and Blake's done working. I'm taking him upstairs."
"I can walk," I say, because apparently there's still one useless piece of pride left in me and it's chosen this moment to embarrass us all.
Maceo moves to the desk before anyone answers, closing windows with calm efficiency. He saves the patch notes, locks the dashboard, and shuts the laptop. My phone disappears into his pocket. "The on-call lead's got the last deployment instruction you sent. Legal can wait. If something's truly urgent, it comes through Luther first."
"I didn't authorize that."
Maceo looks at me then, not unkindly. "You're pale enough that Rosalie diagnosed you with pretend tea, and Quentin called Grayson instead of you because you stopped answering. We're past authorization."
Grayson steps in before I can find another objection, one arm behind my back, the other under my knees. The lift shifts the room too fast. I close my eyes and hate that my body goes heavy against him almost immediately. I hate that he feels it. I hate that everyone probably sees it.
Luther's hand touches my wrist as Grayson passes. "I'll handle the office."
"I'm sorry," I say, but I'm not sure which one of them I'm saying it to anymore.
