Chapter 29
Stephen checked the lock for the fourth time in ten minutes, fingers testing the deadbolt. Click. Locked. Definitely locked. Unless the mechanism had somehow failed in the thirty seconds since his last check. Better test it again.
"Stephen."
His father's voice, soft and steady from the kitchen doorway, made him freeze mid-reach.
"Just making sure," Stephen said, hating how defensive he sounded. "Can't be too careful."
Colin crossed the small space between them, movements deliberate.
The flat felt even smaller than usual with both of them home, the walls pressing in like they were trying to remind Stephen exactly how little stood between him and the outside world.
Some brick and mortar and a lock that suddenly seemed laughably inadequate.
"I could stay," Colin offered, though they both knew he couldn't. The night shifts he picked up with the cleaning crew weren't optional, not with their finances perpetually teetering on the red.
"Don't be daft." Stephen forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "I'm fine. Just a bit cautious."
Colin's jaw tightened, but he'd perfected the art of strategic silence. He gathered his things with the same quiet efficiency he brought to everything, pausing only to press a gentle kiss to Stephen's forehead.
"I'll have my mobile on," Colin said. "Call if you need anything."
"I won't," Stephen replied, already reaching for the lock again. "Go on, you'll be late. Have a good night at work."
The door closed behind his father with a soft click that seemed to echo through the flat.
Stephen immediately tested the lock. Twice.
Then moved to the window, checking the latch with the same obsessive attention.
The street below was empty except for a cat investigating a bin.
Just Barking being Barking on a Wednesday night.
His mobile buzzed on the coffee table, the notification light casting blue shadows in the dimming room. Stephen's stomach clenched. He'd been avoiding his work email for three days, but the real world had a nasty habit of not pausing for personal crises.
His inbox was a disaster. One hundred and forty-seven unread messages, most marked urgent. Jenkins requesting the Morrison brief. Harlow asking for updates on the EU compliance project. HR wanting to "check in" about his "recent absence."
Stephen's fingers hovered over the keyboard.
He could go back tomorrow. Walk through those glass doors, ride the lift to Legal, sit at his desk like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn't been attacked by a delusional alpha who'd confused him for his OnlyFans star twin.
Like the thought of being surrounded by alphas in enclosed spaces didn't make his chest tighten until breathing became a conscious effort.
The panic rose swift and sharp, stealing his breath.
Tomorrow. He was supposed to go back tomorrow.
Face the questions, the stares, the whispers.
Mann-Fielding's smirk. The server room that would never feel safe again.
The walk from the tube station that would forever carry echoes of footsteps behind him.
No. Absolutely not. He'd rather perform his own appendectomy with a butter knife.
Stephen typed quickly before he could second-guess himself:
Victoria - Apologies for the short notice, but I've come down with something highly contagious. Doctor's orders to stay home for the week to avoid infecting the office. Will work remotely as much as possible. Will forward medical certificate tomorrow.
Stephen
Not technically a lie. Trauma was contagious in its own way, spreading through every aspect of life until nowhere felt safe. His doctor would absolutely write him a note if asked. One of the few perks of looking like someone had used his face for boxing practice.
He hit send before his courage failed, then immediately wished he hadn't. A week at home meant a week alone with his thoughts. A week of checking locks and startling at every sound. A week of...
The doorbell rang.
Stephen's entire body went rigid, heart slamming against his ribs hard enough to hurt. Who rang doorbells at eight in the evening? Murderers, that's who. Stalkers who'd followed him home. Alphas who'd decided that Stephen Huxley needed another lesson in vulnerability.
His mobile buzzed.
It's me. I'm outside your flat. Your heart rate has likely increased by approximately 27% due to unexpected doorbell. But it's just me.
Stephen stared at the text. His knees went soft. Ryland. Of course it was Ryland, predicting his panic with scientific accuracy and absolutely no social grace.
He pressed the buzzer without responding to the text, his hands too shaky to manage the tiny on screen keyboard.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs should have been threatening, but Stephen found himself moving toward the door instead of away from it.
When the knock came, soft and careful, he barely hesitated before opening it.
Ryland stood in the narrow hallway, a paper bag of groceries in one arm, a stack of research papers in the other, his hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside. He looked like he'd raided both a Waitrose and a university library.
"You look marginally better than you did on Sunday," Ryland announced, eyes scanning Stephen's face. "Your bruising has progressed from acute haematoma to the yellow-green stage, indicating normal healing. Swelling reduced by approximately sixty percent. How's your range of motion?"
"Hello to you too," Stephen said, stepping aside to let him in. "Lovely weather we're having."
"It's overcast with a seventy percent chance of rain," Ryland replied, missing the sarcasm entirely. "Hardly optimal conditions."
He navigated the tiny flat with the careful movements of someone used to larger spaces, setting his burdens on the kitchen counter before turning to properly assess Stephen.
The intensity of his gaze made Stephen want to fidget, to make tea, to do something other than stand there having his hurts catalogued.
"This is... compact," Ryland observed, taking in the narrow kitchen that barely fit two people, the cluttered living area, the thin walls that did nothing to muffle the sound of the neighbours' television.
"It's a shithole," Stephen said flatly. "You can say it."
"I was attempting tact."
"Since when did that ever matter to you?"
"Since approximately thirty minutes ago." Ryland paused. "I've been researching social niceties regarding home visits. Apparently commenting negatively on someone's living situation is considered rude."
Despite everything, Stephen felt his lips twitch. "What else did your research suggest?"
"That I should have called ahead rather than appearing unannounced. That hosts often offer beverages as a social ritual. That I should remove my shoes if they appear wet or muddy." Ryland glanced down at his perfectly clean oxfords. "The last one seems irrelevant."
"Tea?" Stephen offered, already moving toward the kettle. Anything to occupy his hands, to avoid the awkwardness of their first real conversation since the hospital. Since Ryland had held his hand and promised to wait for whatever timeline Stephen needed.
"That would be acceptable," Ryland agreed, then frowned as Stephen reached for the mugs. "You're trembling."
Stephen's hand stilled on the cabinet handle. He was trembling. Had been for days, probably, a constant low-level shake that he'd attributed to caffeine or exhaustion or anything other than what it actually was.
"It's nothing," he said, grabbing the mugs with determined steadiness. "I'm just tired."
Ryland made a small sound. The kettle clicked on, filling the silence with its familiar rumble. Stephen busied himself with tea bags and sugar, hyperaware of Ryland watching him, of the way the alpha's presence seemed to fill the small kitchen until there was nowhere to hide.
A car door slammed outside. Stephen flinched so hard he nearly dropped the milk, his body responding before his brain could catch up. Just a neighbour coming home. Just normal life happening beyond walls that suddenly felt far too thin.
"You're returning to work tomorrow," Ryland said. Not a question.
"I'm working from home," Stephen corrected, pouring water with hands that definitely weren't steady. "Easing back into it."
"Sensible approach. Gradual exposure therapy has shown efficacy in treating post-traumatic stress responses." He paused. "Though I notice you've positioned yourself to maintain visual surveillance of both the door and window."
Stephen's laugh came out sharp and bitter. "Yes, well, forgive me for being a bit jumpy after being attacked by a delusional stalker."
"I wasn't criticising. Merely observing. Your trauma responses are statistically normal for someone who's experienced assault. Hypervigilance, exaggerated startle response, avoidance behaviours. The research indicates..."
"Great," Stephen interrupted, shoving a mug of tea across the counter with more force than necessary. "I've become another omega statistic. How comforting."
Ryland accepted the tea, wrapping his elegant fingers around the chipped mug. His father had bought the set from Poundland years ago, cheerful yellow things that looked absurd in Ryland's careful grip.
"Statistics are rarely comforting when you're the data point," Ryland said quietly. "I apologise. I default to research when emotional situations exceed my processing capacity."
Stephen slumped against the counter. Three days of jumping at shadows, of checking locks, of pretending to be fine while his nervous system staged a continuous revolt. Three nights of lying awake, replaying the attack, imagining all the ways it could have been worse.
"I can't," Stephen heard himself say. "I can't go back there. Can't walk those streets, ride that tube, sit in that office surrounded by alphas who could..." He stopped, throat closing around the words.
"Who could what?" Ryland prompted gently.