28. Colin
COLIN
Well, that was embarrassing.
Collapsing on stage at a press conference is not on my list of career highlights. I’ve given speeches on zero sleep before. Hell, I once coded an entire subroutine for our POS system while delirious with strep throat and still managed to look semi-human on a Zoom call.
But this? The fall heard ’round the internet? This is a new low.
There are at least five TikToks trending with slowed-down footage of me slumping sideways off the podium like a dying Victorian widow.
One of them has a sound overlay that loops a dramatic gasp with a violin swell.
Another just freezes on my face mid-collapse and puts sparkles over it like I’m an anime character about to get isekai’d into another world.
And don’t get me started on the think pieces.
“Is Copeland CTO Suffering from Tech Burnout?”
“Was Colin Copeland’s Collapse a Calculated PR Move?”
“Exhaustion or Evasion? Why Colin’s Fainting Spell Has the Board Nervous”
As if I need to fake a breakdown. I was living one in real time.
I sign my discharge papers quietly, duck into the stairwell instead of taking the front exit, and text Tic and Dean that I’m “heading home.” Which is technically true.
They don’t ask which home.
Good. Because I’m not going to the mansion. I’m going somewhere better.
It’s about forty minutes outside the city—just past the last strip of gas stations, the kind of place where the pavement forgets it’s supposed to be smooth and the street signs stop bothering with names.
A half-dead warehouse district, mostly hollowed out after the shipping routes changed a few years ago. But not all of it’s dead.
The building is nondescript. Dull gray siding, faded numbers on the metal door, the sort of place you’d never look at twice unless you knew what it was hiding. I punch in the code on the panel beside the door and wait for the heavy click.
Inside, the air smells like cold concrete, ozone, and fresh solder. Home.
This is my off-grid baby. My sanctuary. No cleaning crew. No kitchen staff. No boardroom meetings or surprise audits or goddamn press conferences. Just racks and racks of servers, humming like a lullaby, and a fridge full of Red Bull and protein in both bar and shake form.
I keep the lights low—just enough to navigate.
Most of the interior is black-painted steel, cool glass, LED glows, and the occasional espresso ring on a table I haven’t cleaned.
There’s a cot in the back, a couch older than my youngest cousin, and a wall of whiteboards covered in chicken-scratch diagrams, access trees, and red-marker arrows that loop like paranoid conspiracy theories.
Unpolished, unapologetic, unfiltered. Just like I feel today.
I don’t even change out of the jeans and hoodie from the hospital. I just grab a crate from the back room, start packing up physical backups—printed logs, QR sheets, drive maps that I kept old-school just in case the digital copies ever disappeared. They told me I was paranoid.
They weren’t wrong. But here we are. I’m mid-fold, half a sheet of redacted vendor invoices in one hand, when I hear it.
A knock.
I freeze. Nobody knocks out here.
Hell, nobody comes out here. There’s a fence, a camera feed I never bothered connecting to the cloud, and enough false reports of raccoon infestations to keep nosy realtors away. You don’t find this place by accident.
So, whoever’s out there, they’re looking for me.
I slide the crate aside, grab the pry bar I keep behind the door (not a weapon, just…well, okay maybe a little), and peer through the peephole. And my heart flips upside down in my chest.
Thalassa.
I open the door.
She’s standing there in a hoodie two sizes too big—probably mine—and leggings, arms crossed tight over her chest, hair pulled back into a messy knot. Her eyes are sharp. Wild.
I forget about the embarrassment. I forget about everything.
“Hi,” she says, breathless. “I followed you.”
I blink. “You what?”
“I followed your car. From the hospital.”
“Bold move. Nicely done too. I didn’t even spot you.”
She doesn’t smile. “You left without saying goodbye.”
“I assumed your nap was going to take a few more hours.”
She doesn’t laugh.
Shit. “Okay,” I say, stepping aside. “Come in.”
She does.
And just like that, my hidden lair feels a little less like exile and a little more like a storm shelter with someone else inside.
She steps inside and pauses, her gaze sweeping across the room. The glow from the server racks casts a soft blue hue on her skin. She’s quiet, but not passive—there’s tension in her shoulders, like she’s still deciding whether to punch me or thank me.
Honestly? Fair. She’s been kinda spiky since this happened, and I have it coming. Sort of.
“Nice place,” she says at last. “Very…you.”
I raise a brow. “Is that a compliment?”
“Undecided.”
I close the door behind her. The lock clicks softly into place. “Want a drink?” I offer, moving to the mini-fridge in the back. “I have water, more water, and also water.”
“No Red Bull?” she deadpans.
“Not for you. Caffeine isn’t good for the fetuses.” I gesture to the cot. “And probably not for me right now. Pretty sure if I have another one, I’ll spontaneously combust.”
She moves slowly around the space, trailing her fingers along the back of the couch, the edge of a desk, the side of a server rack. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks again. “You’re okay?”
I stop moving. The question’s soft, but there’s steel underneath it. She’s not asking about my vitals. She’s asking if I’ve actually come back from the edge. If I’m going to scare her like that again.
I lean back against the table and nod, toning it down for her benefit. “I’m fine. Little bruised ego, maybe. But alive. Kinda tired of seeing my face on social media, though. You’d think passing out was the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done.”
She exhales, almost a laugh. “So, you’re fine.”
“I am.”
Her face drops. “Good,” she says, stepping closer. “Then I won’t feel bad for yelling at you.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me.”
I straighten, crossing my arms. “I’m not sure that’s fair. I just got out of the hospital.”
“Yeah, and now you’re hiding out in a warehouse like you’re in a hacker movie from the nineties.”
“Bold of you to assume I haven’t been doing this long before the hospital visit.”
“Colin.”
Her tone changes. I feel it. She’s not here to tease me.
She’s angry. Really angry. And I have a sinking suspicion I know why.
“You followed me to the library.”
Well, shit. I don’t answer right away. I can’t.
She steps closer. “You stalked me.”
“Technically—”
“Don’t say technically.”
I shut my mouth.
She stares up at me, arms crossed again, expression tight. “You watched me. You snuck out so I wouldn’t see you. You heard about the arm, didn’t you? Is that why you came?”
“No,” I say, and for once, I don’t couch the word in anything else. “I didn’t know that was going to happen. I swear.”
Her eyes narrow. “So you were just spying for fun? Another one of your kinks?”
“No,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair. “I was drawn to you, sweets. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. After that weekend, I—I just…needed to see you. One more time.”
Her mouth presses into a line, but I see the hesitation.
“It wasn’t supposed to be stalking,” I say, quieter now. “It was impulsive. Stupid, maybe. But not calculated. I just…I couldn’t stay away from you.”
“You get that it’s still weird, right?” she asks, but there’s something less sharp in her voice. Like the knife’s still out, but she’s not sure if she needs to use it.
“Yeah. I do.”
She exhales. “You can’t just show up places. You can’t—I mean, what if it wasn’t you? What if it had been someone else? Would you be okay with that?”
“But it wasn’t,” I say, stepping closer. “It was me.”
Her cheeks pink. “That doesn’t make it okay.” But something in her tone says otherwise.
I lick my lips. “It was me, and you liked it.”
Her head jerks back. “Excuse me?”
I take another step. “You like that we were watching. That we were protecting you. That someone cared enough to be there without asking for anything in return.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.
I lean in, dropping my voice to a growl. “You like it when we take care of things. When we make the impossible happen. When we use all the ridiculous power we have to make your life easier, better.”
She stops breathing.
I keep going, prowling near. “You like that we can do these things for you. That we can take control of the chaos. That we can make your body melt.”
Her breath hitches.
I’m close now. Close enough to smell her shampoo. Close enough to count the freckles across her nose. “You like it, Thalassa. Even if you want to hate it. Even if it scares the shit out of you.”
She doesn’t back away. She doesn’t stop me. And God, she’s beautiful when she’s furious.
I don’t kiss her first.
She grabs the front of my hoodie and pulls me in, like she’s been fighting herself the whole time and just lost the battle. And I let her.
I let her crash into me like she needs to feel something real, like the anger and confusion swirling inside her need somewhere to land—and I’ve got open arms and too much longing to do anything but catch her.
The kiss is heat and teeth, fast and a little clumsy, like we’re trying to outrun everything we haven’t said. Her fingers twist in the fabric of my hoodie, and my hands slide down to her hips, holding her steady as she presses up on her toes.
She tastes like peppermint and adrenaline. Like the last seventy-two hours have compressed into a kiss that says you scared me, I missed you, don’t you dare do that again .
Her lips move to my jaw, then my neck, and I let my head fall back with a groan.
She pulls away just enough to speak. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“Also true.”
“You crossed a line.”
“Probably several. Laws too.”
She kisses me again, harder this time.
I take a step forward, guiding us backward toward the old couch in the corner. She lets me, dropping onto the cushions like she owns the space, like she’s claimed it just by being here.
And maybe she has.
She tugs her hoodie off, and I follow suit. My shirt goes next. The air between us gets hotter by the second, but there’s more here than just heat. There’s something vulnerable in the way her hands slow when they skim over my chest, like she’s looking at me—not just touching.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But I want this.”
That’s enough for me.
I lean down and kiss her, slower now. We take our time—relearning, reconnecting. This isn’t like the first time, when it was all novelty and hunger and experimentation. This time, there’s weight behind it. Familiarity. Intimacy.
Emotion. And I’m not afraid of that anymore. I want it.
I want her. Every inch of her, every sharp word and soft sigh, every contradiction she embodies.
She’s fire and fragility. She’s the storm and the shelter. She’s everything I didn’t know I was starving for until she showed up at my door like a reckoning.
When we finally fall together—skin on skin, breath tangled, hearts pounding—it’s not just sex.
It’s a reset. A declaration. A grounding.
I slide into her, and I swear, I can taste her on my tongue even when she’s on my dick.
Her cries are frustrated things—part rebuke, part ecstasy.
She’s perched on the couch, her knees on either side of my legs, her arms wrapped around my neck as she rides me.
Those perfect tits in my face. I bury my face there, letting my stubble redden her soft skin.
But then I look up, searching for her lips, and claim them.
Her growls are music, her sighs my favorite sound.
Her nails dig into my shoulder when she comes, and I murmur her name like a secret meant only for this room.
I grip her hips and pull her onto me harder, faster.
I’m chasing my pleasure, but she’s not finished either.
Her next climax is an earthquake, and I crash too.
When it’s over, we don’t move for a long time.
She’s sprawled on top of me, head tucked under my chin, one hand tracing lazy shapes on my ribs. My arms are around her, holding her like she might disappear if I let go.
I’m never letting go.
She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. We just breathe. Eventually, she shifts, just enough to prop herself up on one elbow and look at me. Her hair’s a mess. Her lips are kiss-swollen. Her eyes are clear and wary.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she says softly.
My stomach twists. “Doing what?”
“Making big decisions for me. Without asking.”
Ah. That. I nod, slowly. “I hear you.”
“Do you?” Her voice is quiet but pointed. “Because it doesn’t feel like you do.”
“I’m trying.”
She studies me for a moment, then sighs. “You’re a good man, Colin. But you’re used to fixing things your way.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not a problem to solve.”
“You’re not,” I say, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “You’re the only equation I’ve never wanted to solve. I just want to be part of the answer.”
That makes her blink. Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “You’re such a nerd.”
“Takes one to kiss one.”
She groans and buries her face in my chest. “I hate how much I like you.”
“You’re pretty okay yourself.”
She snorts. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I’ll still be here when you’re not.”
She looks up at me again, and this time there’s softness in her eyes. No less fire, but less heat. Less burn. “Good,” she says. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”
That’s what I needed to hear.
Later, when she’s dressed again and tying her shoes on the couch, she glances back at me. “Do the others know about this place?”
“Just you.”
She lifts a brow. “Why me? Why let me in?”
I give her the real answer. “Because you saw me at my worst,” I say. “And you still came looking.”
She doesn’t reply right away. But she stands, walks over, and kisses me slow and lingering. Then she whispers, “That goes both ways.”
Before she goes, I check my phone. “We’re being paged to the office. Some big thing. You good to go?”
“It’s late.”
“The big things never care about the time.”
She yawns. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go.”