13. CJ
CJ
The days roll into weeks, and the office grows lighter.
Deck and Finn still orbit each other in constant collision, and I still end up playing referee while Eli sits back and watches like it’s entertainment.
A faint warmth settles in my chest. The chaos feels different now, less sharp, less volatile.
Almost like the office is learning how to breathe again.
Now and then, Eli will toss in a comment or opinion. His eyes track everything: every shift, every tone. It makes something protective rise in me without warning.
Today, Finn and Deck finally hit their limit. Or rather, Finn hits it, and Deck reacts like it’s his personal responsibility to enforce survival.
It starts while I’m talking to Deck about a client, leaning against his desk. I glance up and see Finn storming toward me with a look of pure outrage. My shoulders tense automatically. Finn only looks like that when he’s about to make his problem my problem.
“Deck threatened me,” Finn announces.
“Did not,” Deck replies without looking up.
Finn turns on him. “He told me not to touch his lunch.”
“Again,” Deck says flatly, leaning back in his chair, “that wasn’t a threat. It was a warning, Finn.”
Finn climbs right onto Deck’s desk. I rub my forehead; I can already feel a headache forming. I don’t have the patience for this today.
A second later, Deck stands, hooks an arm around Finn’s waist, and lifts him straight off the desk like he weighs nothing.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, but the sheer absurdity almost drags a laugh out of me.
“Put me down, you great big lumberjack!” Finn immediately starts yelling.
“No,” Deck growls, walking quickly through the office.
“You can’t just throw me around! That’s assault, Deck!”
Deck keeps walking toward the back exit while Finn dangles and complains loudly, upside down, face inches from absolute disaster. And then Finn makes a decision that feels like it should come with consequences:
He bites Deck on the ass.
My jaw drops. For a moment, I genuinely consider walking out and pretending none of this ever happened.
Deck freezes. “Ah, fuck!” He shifts his grip, reaches up, and smacks Finn’s ass.
Hard.
The sound echoes through the office. My pulse jumps, not from shock, but from the sudden silence that follows.
Then Deck growls, “Enough.”
The entire office goes silent. Finn turns bright red.
Deck carries him out through the back exit like a sack of problems, with Finn still protesting the entire way. I just stand there, unsure whether I should intervene or applaud whatever the hell that was.
And that’s when laughter pulls my attention across the room.
Eli.
His head is tipped back, eyes bright, laughing properly, unrestrained, unmeasured, real. Not the careful smile he offers most days. Not the polite laugh that says he’s managing himself.
The sound hits me square in the chest. Warm. Alive. I want to hear it forever.
* * *
The week moves on, and after what Finn officially dubs “Ass-gate,” something shifts between him and Deck.
Deck starts touching him more without thinking about it.
It’s subtle, but it’s there: a settling, a shift.
Something that looks suspiciously like trust. Finn doesn’t flinch from it anymore; he just settles into it.
He’s quieter, like he’s stopped bracing for impact, as if he’s finally decided Deck isn’t going anywhere.
And Eli becomes the best part of my day without even trying. The conversations between us stay simple, normal talks that Eli happily contributes to.
The realization lands heavier than I expect. My chest tightens, but I don’t fight it.
He starts letting pieces of his past surface. Ree and Marge, spoken with a warmth that sits deep in his voice. His time as an ER nurse. The awful hospital coffee. Books he used to love. His bike.
And then, he tells me his full name.
Jonah Elijah Wolfe.
Every day, he gives me another piece of himself. Each piece feels like a privilege, a responsibility, something I never want to mishandle.
It happens during one of our coffee runs. Eli is talking about his bike again, not like something lost, but like an old friend he still knows how to miss properly.
“She was a pain in the ass sometimes,” he says, stirring his coffee.
I glance at him. “Your bike?”
He smiles. “Yeah. The battery would die if I didn’t ride her enough. Clutch was temperamental. Hated cold mornings.”
His smile softens something deep inside me. I want to keep that softness safe.
A laugh slips out of me. “Sounds like her owner.”
Eli just smiles into his cup.
“You realize you’re talking about her like she was alive, right?”
He shrugs lightly. “She kind of was.”
That makes me pause, not because it’s strange, but because I understand it. It isn’t really about the bike. It’s freedom.
“What happened to her?”
His smile fades a fraction. “I sold her. I needed the money.”
Quiet. Final.
“You loved that bike,” I say softly.
“I did.” His fingers trace the rim of the cup, slow and absent. “I used to ride whenever I wanted. Just pick a road and go. See where it ended up.”
A small smile returns. I can see it: Eli on the open road. Uncontained. Unattended.
Then his expression shifts. “Adrian didn’t really like me riding. He said it was dangerous,” Eli adds with a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “He said it was reckless.”
My jaw tightens. Reckless isn’t what Adrian feared. Freedom is.
“And he didn’t like me being gone too long either,” Eli whispers, his gaze dropping back to his cup. “Eventually, it was just easier not to argue.”
There it is. The sentence that explains far too much.
I keep my voice steady. “When was the last time you rode and enjoyed it?”
He thinks about it for too long. “Before.”
The word lands like a bruise. Heavy. Final.
Before Adrian. Before the shrinking. Before he started making himself smaller just to keep things from breaking.
“I needed it for work,” he adds quietly. “He only let me ride it then. Not after.”
And suddenly it’s clear. The bike wasn’t just transport; it was freedom. Adrian saw that and stripped it away. On that bike, Eli was someone who didn’t need permission to exist.
“You miss it,” I say.
His eyes lift slightly. “The bike?”
I shake my head once, holding his gaze. “No. You miss being you.”
His eyes flicker, and something fragile cracks open between us.
* * *
The following week, Eli and I spend the evening sorting files.
The office is empty, everyone gone home, leaving just the two of us under the low hum of lights and silence. Deck and Finn left an hour ago, off doing whatever version of chaos they call a routine.
Eli and I sit side by side at the large meeting table, buried in paperwork. It’s quiet, comfortable. The silence feels like a promise we’re both learning how to hold.
I reach for a document at the same time as Eli, and our arms brush.
My pulse jumps. The contact is small, but it feels like the start of something inevitable. Eli stills, and so do I. We both pause over the paper like it suddenly matters far less than what’s happening between us.
I look at him, giving him the space to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. And neither do I.
The silence stretches, heavy and charged with everything we haven’t said. It takes everything in me not to close the distance. I want him closer, not just in this moment, not just at this table. I want him in a way that doesn’t feel temporary.
But I stay still. I let him choose the pace.
Eli moves first.
He leans in slowly, like he’s testing the edge of something he can still step back from if he needs to. My breath stops. I don’t move, afraid the moment will shatter if I do.
And then his lips touch mine.
Soft, barely there, but it lands like recognition. Heat floods my chest. Everything inside me shifts: sharp, certain, undeniable.
I want him.
He deepens the kiss slowly. Neither of us touches the other at first, just our lips connected, moving together, unhurried, exploring. There is no pressure, no expectation. Just warmth and want.
I lift my hand to cup his jaw, and the slight tremble I feel in his skin hits me harder than the kiss. He’s choosing this. Choosing me.
His hand mirrors mine, resting against my jaw like he’s reminding himself I’m real. That this is real. That he is here, and that he wants this.
His trust means more than anything. For once, Eli isn’t running. He isn’t apologizing. He is choosing.
The world fades: the office, the files, the weeks spent pretending this pull didn’t exist. There is only him. His scent, his warmth, the way he fits against me like he was always meant to be here.
I place my hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat. The rhythm grounds me. For a second, I forget every reason I told myself to be careful.
Then, reality catches up.
Slow down.
I force myself to breathe, slowing the kiss until we’re barely touching, close enough that I feel every breath against my lips. Our foreheads rest together. Neither of us moves.
“Tell me you’re okay,” I whisper, my voice shaking. I need the answer more than I should.
Eli looks at me, and I get lost in his golden eyes. A small smile touches his lips.
“I think…” he whispers against my mouth, “I’m more than okay.”
Relief hits me so hard I almost sway.
He presses one last soft kiss to my lips, never breaking eye contact. And there it is: happiness. I see it in his eyes, and it means everything.
“Let’s go home,” I say with a smile.
Eli’s eyes soften, and he gives me a small nod.
I don’t mean the apartment. I mean us.
The truth settles deep, heavy, and certain. I’m not running from it anymore.