And then a sound splits the air—sharp, sudden, loud enough to make us both jump. It might as well be fireworks in the office.
A shrill, insistent ping from the console. I freeze mid-breath. Sean blinks, dazed, then pulls back just enough for me to see his lips, red and swollen, trembling with leftover adrenaline.
“Crap,” I mutter, forcing myself to turn toward the monitor. I adjust my glasses and scan the logs. My fingers still feel shaky.
After a second, I exhale. “False alarm. Just a latency spike. We’re fine.”
Sean’s hands drop from my shoulders. I can see the panic flicker behind his eyes—like he’s realizing what we just did, here, of all places.
“I, uh… should probably go.” He clears his throat, trying to recover. “Seems the system’s all set.”
He moves to stand, fumbling for his pants, still around his ankles. I can’t stop smiling. My heart’s racing like I’ve run a marathon.
“Sean.”
He pauses at the door.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for staying.”
He hesitates, his lips twitching like he’s about to grin again. “Thanks for…” he says, voice low, “lending a hand.”
And then he slips out, leaving me in the loneliness of the server room, still catching my breath.
I lean back in my chair, shirt open, and stare at the ceiling. My whole body feels like it’s still buzzing, like every circuit in me has overloaded.
My mate just kissed me. And let me touch him. Make him feel good.
And I’m pretty sure I’ll never be the same again.
8
SYSTEM OVERLOAD
SEAN
I’m a professional.
I remind myself of that approximately every fourteen seconds.
They didn’t go over this in business school.
When I woke up this morning, I thought maybe, possibly, the mortification from yesterday would’ve faded overnight. That I’d stop replaying the part where Greg called me his good boy in his low, warm voice that sounded way too sincere for what we were doing.
Spoiler: it hasn’t faded. It’s gotten worse.
I sit at my desk and stare at my monitor, willing my brain to focus on the inbox that’s multiplying faster than a litter of gremlins. I’ve already reorganized my desktop folders twice, color-coded my tasks, and cleaned out my “downloads” folder like I’m trying to determine which screenshots spark joy.
Anything to keep my mind off Greg.
The sound of laughter from down the hall makes me freeze. It’s his laugh—bright and easy, like sunshine piercing through clouds. My pulse picks up like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. Which is ridiculous, because I’m literally just existing at my desk, wearing a shirt that was not strategically chosen to make my shoulders look decent.
“Morning, Sean,” Amara calls as she breezes past, holding a stack of folders like she’s on her way to conquer the world.
“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual but hitting somewhere closer to “nervous telemarketer.”
She pauses, glances at me, and raises an eyebrow. “You okay? You look… flushed.”
