Chapter 11
Maceo
The office light's too sharp, making the corners of the room feel harder than they should.
I lean against the oak doorframe with my arms crossed, watching Grayson smile like the expression's been placed there by hand.
His mouth curves when Luther says something low enough for only the room to hear, but the smile doesn't settle into his eyes.
His shoulders stay lifted, and his fingers keep moving against the cuff of his sleeve, rubbing once, stopping, then starting again when he thinks no one's looking.
Luther sees it too. He stands near the window with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, the city light catching on the dark ink along his skin.
He doesn't look at me, but he knows I'm there.
Luther always knows where the door is, and today, so do I.
His attention stays on Grayson as he says his name, low and even, and Grayson's head comes up with the alertness of someone bracing for the next thing to handle.
"I'm fine," Grayson says before Luther can finish.
Luther crosses the room slowly, giving Grayson time to refuse and not enough room to make the refusal matter.
"You answered too fast." He sets a hand at the side of Grayson's neck, thumb resting beneath his jaw, and Grayson's eyes close for half a second before he forces them open again.
"Go to the rest room. Close the door. Sleep. "
Grayson's gaze moves toward the hall, already counting the people outside it. "Luca's got the kids, Blake's still in his office, and Samuel was asking you about security cameras because he thinks Dorian planted shiny bugs in the vents."
"The kids are with Luca," I say, stepping into the room before he can build a full argument out of everyone else's needs. "Blake's got three people watching his numbers whether he likes it or not, and Samuel's bug theory's been taken seriously enough for him to feel vindicated."
For a second, Grayson almost laughs. The sound catches halfway through and turns into a breath instead.
He looks exhausted in a way he'd deny if either of us named it too gently.
His hair's slipped loose around his face, and there's a faint crease between his brows from holding too many worries at once.
Luther bends and kisses his forehead, brief but firm, and Grayson stills under it like his body's been waiting for permission to stop.
"Maceo will go with you," Luther says. "Lock the door."
Grayson opens his eyes. "I don't need a guard."
"No," I say, coming to stand at his side. "You need someone who knows you'll try to reorganize pillows, check on Luca, answer three messages, and call it resting."
His gaze flicks to mine, tired recognition cutting through the protest before he can shape it. Luther's hand falls from his neck, but he stays close enough that Grayson can't pretend either of us has missed the way he's swaying on his feet. "One hour, Gray," Luther says. "More if you sleep."
Grayson looks between us, then toward the hall again, where the low noise of the office presses against the glass.
I can see the exact moment he stops arguing because he doesn't have enough energy to make the argument useful.
"All right," he says quietly, and I place my hand at his lower back to guide him out before he can turn surrender into another task.
The office rest room sits behind the main lounge, small and windowless, with a leather sofa along one wall, a narrow cabinet, and a stack of wool blankets that smell like home because Luca keeps replacing them no matter how many times the cleaning service folds them wrong.
It's meant for short breaks during crunch weeks.
Today, with the building too bright and the air outside too full of strangers, it feels more like a room with edges.
I close the door behind us and turn the deadbolt.
The click's soft, but Grayson hears it. His shoulders drop another fraction.
"You're hovering," he says, though he doesn't move away from me. His hand goes to the back of his neck, fingers pushing through the tangled fall of his hair. "I can feel you doing it."
"I'm standing."
"You have different kinds of standing."
I check the water carafe on the side table because it gives my hands something useful to do.
Full. Two glasses. Blanket within reach.
Door locked. Room quiet. When I turn back, Grayson's watching me with an expression softer than the words he used a moment ago.
He sinks onto the edge of the sofa, elbows on his knees, and the whole shape of him changes once he's no longer upright for everyone else.
"We don't get enough time, do we?" he asks. His voice is quiet, direct enough that the question has no room to become teasing. "Just us."
The honesty of it lands in the center of my chest. I move closer and stand between his knees, setting my hands on his shoulders because answering immediately would make the feeling smaller than it is.
His muscles are knotted beneath my palms. I work my thumbs into the base of his neck, slow and firm, until his head dips forward and a tired sound leaves him.
"No," I say. "We don't."
It's not an accusation. There's no one to accuse.
Life is full. The children climb whoever stands still long enough to become furniture.
Blake turns fear into work until someone physically removes the screen from his hands.
Luca feels every shift in the house and then tries to make a safer one out of blankets.
Luther holds the line until the line cuts into him.
I stand where I'm needed and call it enough because most days, it is.
But Grayson's got his hands around my wrists now, and he's looking up at me like he wants me closer than useful.
"I'm sorry," he says, not dramatically, not with shame, just tired honesty. "I get caught up in everyone else. I know you don't ask, but that doesn't mean you don't need anything."
"I don't need to be managed, Gray." I let my hands slide from his shoulders to his face, my palms framing his jaw. "I'm where I want to be."
His fingers tighten around my wrists. "That sounds like something you say from the doorway."
The words should be easy to answer. They're not.
I've spent years being comfortable at the edge of rooms because the edge gives me the door, the windows, the sightlines, the first warning if something changes.
Grayson knows that. He knows me well enough to make the truth sound gentle and still leave it no place to hide.
"Stay with me," he says, pulling my hands down but not letting go. His forehead rests against my stomach, and his breath warms the fabric of my shirt. "Don't just make the room safe. Stay inside it with me."
I run my fingers through his hair, untangling the knots slowly.
The gesture gives me time to put down the first answer that comes to me, the practical one, the one about locked doors and water and Luther expecting us to rest. Grayson doesn't need the guard right now.
He needs the man who came in with him. I ease off his shoes, then his jacket, folding both beside the sofa because order's easier than confession, and he lets me until my hands stay too long on the edge of his sleeve.
When he looks up again, the exhaustion's still there, but something warmer's moved through it. Want, yes, but not only want. Recognition. Relief. The quiet ache of finally having the room to reach for something that belongs only to us.
"Maceo," he says, his voice low, his fingers curling into the hem of my shirt. "Please."
I don’t wait for a second invitation. I reach down and pull Grayson’s mouth to mine, the kiss rougher than anything we usually allow ourselves. He makes a quiet sound and drags me down with him, and for a moment I let myself sink into it.
Then the old habit kicks in. I pull back just enough to look at him, checking his face, his breathing, the tension in his shoulders. Grayson sees it immediately. His hand slides up the back of my neck and holds me there.
“Stop watching me like that,” he says, voice low. “I’m right here. You don’t have to guard this.”
I try to answer, but he kisses me again before I can, slower this time, like he’s trying to pull me out of my own head.
His hands move over my back, under my shirt, and I let him strip it off.
When he reaches for my trousers I help him, but my eyes keep flicking to his face, looking for any sign that this is too much, that I’m taking too much.
Grayson catches my jaw with one hand and makes me look at him.
“Maceo,” he says, quieter now. “You’re allowed to want this. I want you to.”
Something in my chest loosens. I reach for the lube without looking away from him and slick my fingers.
When I touch him he exhales and spreads his legs wider, one hand still resting on the side of my neck like he’s keeping me anchored.
I work him open slowly, watching the way his eyes go half-lidded, the way his mouth parts on a soft sound.
Every time I start to pull my focus back to making sure he’s comfortable, he tugs me down and kisses me until I stop thinking about anything except the way he feels under my hands.
When I finally push into him, I have to stop halfway. The tight heat of him and the way he’s looking at me—like he’s been waiting for this too—hits harder than I expected. Grayson’s hands slide down my back and pull me the rest of the way in.
“There you are,” he breathes against my mouth. “Stay with me.”
I start to move, careful at first, still half-waiting for some reason to pull back.
Grayson doesn’t let me. Every time my rhythm falters or I start to check myself, he kisses me or whispers my name or tightens his legs around my hips like he’s refusing to let me retreat into being careful.
His hands stay on me the whole time—one in my hair, one on my back—keeping me close.
I can feel my knot swelling, catching on every thrust. Grayson feels it too. His breath stutters and he pulls my forehead down to his.
“Don’t pull away from this,” he says, voice rough. “I want you here. All the way here.”
That’s what finally cracks something open in me.
I stop holding myself back. I bury my face in his neck and let myself take what he’s offering, deep and focused, no longer trying to manage the moment.
Grayson holds onto me through it, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my shoulder like he needs the contact just as badly.
When I come, it’s with a low, broken sound against his skin, my knot locking us together as I spill inside him. Grayson follows right after, his body tightening around me in long, shaking waves as he comes between us with a quiet, shaky exhale.
I stay where I am, chest pressed to his, knot keeping us joined, his fingers moving slowly through my hair.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the sofa with the locked door at my back and Grayson warm beneath me.
The building hums beyond the walls, distant and indifferent, but in here the only sounds are our breathing and the faint shift of leather when one of us moves.
My face is tucked against his neck, and his arms are around me, holding tighter than his exhaustion should allow.
Small tremors still move through him, fading slowly under my hands.
"Finally," he whispers, turning his head enough to press his mouth to my temple. The word's barely there, but I feel it more than hear it. His fingers move along my spine, slow and absent, as if he's reminding himself I'm still on this side of the door with him. "Thank you."
I lift my head enough to look at him. "For what?"
"For staying." His eyes are clearer now, the frantic shine worn down into something softer.
Tired, but not empty. "For waiting. For never making me feel like I have to earn the fact that you'll still be there when I finally remember to reach for you.
" His mouth tightens before the rest comes out.
"I'm sorry we don't make more time for this. For you."
There are several things I could say. That he doesn't have to apologize.
That the house is full, and the children are small, and the pack's never been a place where love arrives in neat, scheduled hours.
That I chose the edge of the room so often he learned to look for me there.
None of it feels useful with him watching me like this, bare and sleepy and still brave enough to say the thing plainly.
"We're making it now," I tell him, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. "That matters."
His breath leaves him unevenly, and he closes his eyes for a second under my touch.
I shift carefully, slow enough not to jar him, and reach for the wool blanket folded over the back of the sofa.
Grayson helps only in the smallest ways, lifting one shoulder, turning into me when I settle beside him, tucking his head beneath my chin as if his body's finally remembered what rest is supposed to feel like.
The room's cool, the leather colder where our skin's shifted away from it, but he's warm against my side, heavy in the best way.
I keep one arm around him and look toward the thin line of light beneath the door.
Luther's out there somewhere, likely pacing between Blake's office and his own, taking calls he doesn't want and ignoring the ones that deserve it.
Luca'll be checking the children twice before he lets himself sit down.
Blake'll claim he's working on one small fix while three people watch his pulse.
The day'll still be there when we open the door.
For now, the door's locked. The water's on the table. Grayson's breathing slower against my chest.
That's enough.
The handle turns quietly sometime later.
Grayson doesn't stir. I open my eyes but don't move.
The lock holds, and silence settles on the other side of the wood for a few seconds before I hear Luther's low exhale.
He doesn't knock. He doesn't ask whether we're all right.
After a moment, a folded blanket slides down over the threshold, blocking the strip of light from the hall, and the office outside clicks into darkness.
Luther's seen enough to understand.
I close my eyes again and tighten my arm around Grayson, careful not to wake him. For once, I don't listen for the next problem past the door. I let the dark stay dark, let Grayson's breathing pull mine into rhythm, and stay where he asked me to stay.