Chapter 17 The Data Point
The weekend was a system-wide failure.
Julian’s apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet order, became a cage.
He attempted to follow his routine—Saturday morning market, Sunday afternoon reading, meal prep for the week—but the precise, logical rhythm of his life had been shattered.
A new, chaotic variable had been introduced into his system, and its name was Leo Hayes.
The variable took the form of a ghost memory that played on a relentless loop in his mind: the press of warm lips, the scent of rain-dampened fabric, the soft, surprised sigh Leo had let out a split second before he kissed him back.
Julian tried to process it the only way he knew how: he tried to turn it into data.
Event: Unscheduled Interpersonal Physical Contact.
Duration: Approximately 4.7 seconds. Participants: J.
Thorne, L. Hayes. Stimulus: A combination of adrenaline post-victory, atmospheric conditions (golden hour), and prolonged professional proximity.
Outcome: A catastrophic loss of professional composure.
He wrote the points down on a legal pad, the crisp, black ink a stark contrast to the messy, unquantifiable nature of the event itself.
It was a useless exercise. Analyzing the kiss was like trying to analyze the taste of sugar by listing its chemical components.
The data told him nothing of the dizzying, terrifying freefall he’d felt in that moment.
It didn’t explain the primal, illogical urge that had driven him to close that final inch of space, a decision made not by his brain but by some deeper, more reckless part of him he hadn’t known existed.
He had instigated it. That was the most unsettling part.
He, Julian Thorne, the champion of logic and control, had acted on pure, unadulterated impulse.
He had looked at Leo and had simply… taken what he wanted.
The thought was both exhilarating and deeply alarming.
He had spent his entire life building walls to protect himself from this very kind of emotional chaos, and in 4.
7 seconds, he had not only opened the gate but had charged headfirst onto the battlefield.
By Monday morning, he had reached a single, infuriating conclusion: he had no conclusion. He was operating without a map, without a plan. Walking into the V&S office felt less like returning to work and more like returning to the scene of the crime.
The atmosphere was thick enough to be a physical presence. The air, which usually hummed with the quiet energy of productivity, was now charged with a silent, crackling static. The source of the disturbance was, of course, sitting at his desk in the creative corner.
Leo was wearing a muted green sweater today, a significant de-escalation from Friday’s sunshine yellow, as if he too were attempting to blend in, to become invisible.
He was staring intently at his monitor, but Julian, a connoisseur of focus, could tell he wasn't actually seeing it.
His posture was too stiff, his shoulders too tense.
He was a supernova of anxiety trying to disguise itself as a productive employee.
Julian retreated to the safety of his glass-walled office, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss that sounded more like a prison cell door locking.
He sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and stared at a spreadsheet detailing Q3 revenue projections.
The numbers were just meaningless squiggles.
His entire awareness was focused on the man sitting fifty feet away.
He could feel Leo’s presence like a magnetic field.
It was an absurd, unscientific notion, but it was undeniable.
He was aware of every time Leo shifted in his chair, every time he ran a hand through his messy hair, every time he laughed at something Maya said—a laugh that was noticeably more subdued than usual.
This was untenable.
The silence between them was a living entity.
It was a third person in the room, taking up all the oxygen.
Every project update, every team meeting, every casual stroll to the coffee machine was now a minefield of potential awkwardness.
He was the boss. He was the one who had crossed the line.
It was his responsibility to fix this, to restore the equilibrium.
The logical path was clear:
Call Leo into his office.
Acknowledge the lapse in professional judgment.
Reiterate the importance of workplace boundaries.
Agree to move forward as if it never happened.
It was a sensible, mature, and completely impossible plan.
The thought of looking Leo in the eye and reducing that kiss—that dizzying, world-tilting moment—to a “lapse in judgment” felt like a lie of monumental proportions.
It wasn’t a lapse. It had been the most intentional thing he had done in years.
He spent the next hour pretending to work. He color-coded his inbox. He organized a folder of files that was already perfectly organized. He cleaned his monitor with a microfiber cloth until it gleamed. It was a masterclass in productive procrastination.
But the tension was a tightening knot in his chest. The silence was getting louder. He looked over and saw Leo get up to walk to the kitchenette. This was it. This was the moment. Avoidance was no longer an option. Avoidance was cowardice, and Julian Thorne was not a coward.
He stood, his movements stiff, and walked out of his office.
He intercepted Leo near the wall of windows, away from the prying eyes of the rest of the team.
Leo saw him coming and froze, a deer caught in the world’s most stylishly minimalist headlights.
His knuckles were white where he gripped his sloth mug.
“Leo,” Julian said. His voice was steady, thank God.
“Julian,” Leo replied, his voice a tight, quiet thing. He wouldn’t meet his eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere on Julian’s tie.
Julian’s carefully prepared script of professional disclaimers evaporated. All the logic, all the sensible steps, they were useless in the face of the raw, undeniable reality of the man standing in front of him. He was left with only the truth.
“About Friday,” he started, his own voice now quieter than he intended.
Leo flinched almost imperceptibly. “You don’t have to,” he said quickly. “It was weird. The escape room, the adrenaline, whatever. It was a fluke. We can just forget it.” He was offering Julian an escape route, a clean, easy exit. The logical part of Julian’s brain screamed at him to take it.
But he couldn’t. Forgetting it was not an option. He couldn’t un-know the taste of Leo’s lips or the feeling of his hand on Leo’s jaw. He couldn’t erase the data point. And if there was one thing Julian Thorne did not do, it was ignore data.
He took a half-step closer, forcing Leo to finally look up and meet his gaze. Julian held it, his own expression serious, determined.
“I don’t think it was a fluke,” he said, the words simple, direct, and stripped of all artifice. “And I have no intention of forgetting it.”
He wasn't accusing. He wasn't demanding. He was simply stating a fact, laying a single, undeniable truth on the table between them. It was a data point that had changed everything, and he was not going to pretend it didn’t exist. He was a scientist, and this was an experiment he now had to see through to its conclusion.
He watched as a storm of emotions warred in Leo’s eyes—shock, confusion, fear, and something else… something that looked dangerously like hope.
Julian had no idea what the next step was. He had no flowchart, no projection, no precedent for this. For the first time in his professional life, he was operating completely in the dark.
And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a failure. It felt like a beginning.