9. Felcity
Chapter nine
Felcity
T he morning sun is blinding. I've been awake for hours, replaying yesterday's confrontation in my mind. My hand still tingles where Vren's fingers clasped mine, the warmth of his touch lingering like a ghost imprint on my skin.
After the harassment incident, we'd stayed up late talking—really talking—for the first time. Not as caseworker and client, but as two people trying to understand the weird connection between us. The conversation keeps playing on repeat in my head as I stare at my ceiling.
"I've never seen such restraint," I had told him, perched on the edge of his couch. "Those men were trying everything to provoke you."
Vren's golden eyes had remained steady on mine. "Violence would have accomplished nothing except reinforcing their prejudice. My people are warriors, yes, but a true warrior knows when not to fight."
Something about his quiet dignity had reached deep inside me, touching a part of myself I hadn't known existed.
The bond between us had hummed with approval, a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with physical attraction and everything to do with recognizing something admirable in his character.
My phone buzzes, snapping me from my little daydream. The screen shows a message from Morgan: Need to see you in my office. 8:30 AM sharp.
My stomach drops. The time stamp shows the message was sent over an hour ago, at 6:45 AM. This can't be good.
By 8:15, I'm hurrying through the immigration building lobby, coffee in hand more for comfort than caffeine.
My professional mask is firmly in place, but underneath it, anxiety is doing somersaults in my gut.
Has word of yesterday's incident already reached the department?
Or worse—does Morgan somehow know about my personal visit to Vren's apartment?
I'm so lost in my spiraling thoughts that I nearly slam into a group of people gathered around the lobby's central screen. The broadcast shows a familiar scene—Vren's apartment corridor, three aggressive men, and... me, standing shoulder to shoulder with a Zexian immigrant.
"Oh shit," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.
The footage is crystal clear. Someone must have uploaded their recording to social media, where it was picked up by the morning news. The caption scrolling beneath the video reads: "Immigration Official Defends Zexian Immigrant from Harassment."
In any other context, this might be positive coverage. But all I can see is damning evidence of my personal involvement with a client. My professional boundaries, already compromised in my heart, now appear shattered in high-definition for the entire department to witness.
I force myself to keep walking, head high despite the curious glances following me. No wonder Morgan wants to see me. This is precisely the kind of media attention the department tries to avoid.
Her office door stands slightly ajar. I knock anyway, needing those few extra seconds to get my shit together.
"Come in, Felicity."
Morgan sits behind her desk, tablet propped in front of her displaying the same footage I just saw in the lobby. Two other people occupy the visitor chairs—Jameson from Legal and Director Chan from Alien Immigration Services. Great. This is so much worse than I thought.
"Please, sit down," Director Chan gestures to the remaining chair.
I perch on its edge, hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide their trembling. "Good morning, Director. Jameson."
"I assume you've seen the news," Morgan begins without preamble.
"Just now, in the lobby," I confirm, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I was going to report yesterday's incident this morning. Three men harassed a Zexian immigrant in his residence. I happened to be conducting a home visit at the time."
The lie slips out before I can stop it. A home visit. Not a personal call to the man who's become the center of my emotional universe in less than a week.
Director Chan raises an eyebrow. "A home visit that wasn't on your official schedule?"
My cheeks burn. "It was... impromptu. I had concerns about the housing relocation process."
Jameson clears his throat, tapping at his tablet. "The video has over two million views already. Comments are split between praising your intervention and questioning why you were there in the first place."
"There's also this," Morgan swipes her screen, and another video appears. This one shows the moment Vren and I touched hands after the confrontation, the lingering connection between us unmistakable even through a phone camera's lens.
Shame and defiance war inside me. I want to look away but force myself to watch the evidence of my own unprofessional behavior. On screen, my face softens as I look at Vren in a way that no caseworker should ever look at a client.
"I can explain," I begin, though I'm not sure I can.
"Please do," Director Chan says, her expression unreadable.
I take a deep breath, considering my options.
I could double down on the lie—insist it was a professional visit, that the touching of hands was just an instinctive human gesture of comfort after a traumatic event.
But looking at the three serious faces before me, I know the truth is already obvious.
"I visited Vren's apartment in a personal capacity," I admit, the words both terrifying and strangely liberating. "There is... a connection between us that I've been struggling to understand."
The admission hangs in the air, heavy with implications.
"A connection," Morgan repeats, her tone carefully neutral. "With your client."
"Yes." My voice grows stronger. "I've recently learned about the Zexian mate-bond—a biological and neurological connection that can form between compatible individuals. It appears that Vren and I..."
"You're claiming that this is some sort of alien biological imperative?" Jameson interrupts, skepticism written all over his face. "Not simply an inappropriate attraction to a client?"
Something in his dismissive tone pisses me off. "I'm saying it's both more complicated and more significant than a mere attraction. I've consulted with experts on Zexian physiology and culture—"
"Regardless of what you call it," Director Chan cuts in, "you've violated department policy on client-caseworker relationships. The optics of this are concerning, to say the least."
"I understand that," I acknowledge, my professional training finally kicking back in. "And I accept responsibility for my actions."
Morgan leans forward. "Felicity, you've been an exemplary caseworker. Your record is spotless. Which makes this situation all the more disappointing."
The implied question hangs between us: How could you risk everything for this?
"What happens now?" I ask quietly.
Director Chan sighs. "That depends. This video has created a complicated public relations situation. On one hand, it shows our department standing against anti-alien discrimination, which aligns with our mission. On the other, it raises questions about professional conduct."
Jameson taps his pen against his tablet. "We could frame this as a dedicated caseworker going above and beyond to ensure client safety."
Hope flickers briefly before Morgan stomps it out. "Except for the hand-holding and the look on her face. No one who sees that video will believe their relationship is purely professional."
"It's not," I say softly, surprising even myself with the admission. Three pairs of eyes fix on me with varying degrees of shock. "I mean... it wasn't supposed to be anything but professional. I didn't plan this. But I can't deny what's happening."
A heavy silence falls. I've effectively admitted to violating one of the department's most fundamental ethical boundaries.
Finally, Director Chan speaks. "Felicity, I'm placing you on administrative leave, effective immediately. Two weeks, paid. During that time, all your cases will be reassigned, including Mr. Vren's."
It's both better and worse than I expected. Better because I'm not being fired outright; worse because the separation from Vren will intensify the bond symptoms. But I nod acceptance, understanding this is the least severe consequence I could reasonably hope for.
"Additionally," she continues, "you'll need to decide where you want your career to go from here.
If you choose to pursue this... connection with your client, you cannot return to your current position.
We might be able to find you a role in policy or education where you wouldn't have direct case management responsibilities. "
The reality of what's happening hits me like a freight train—I'm being asked to choose between my career and Vren.
Between the professional identity I've built over years and a connection that's barely a week old.
Logic says the choice should be clear, but the persistent warmth in my chest argues otherwise.
"I understand," I say, rising from my chair on legs that feel like jelly. "I'll use the leave to consider my options."
Morgan walks me to the door. In the hallway, away from the others, she speaks quietly. "This mate-bond you mentioned—is it real? Medically verifiable?"
"Yes," I answer without hesitation. "It creates measurable physiological changes in both parties. Separation causes actual physical symptoms."
Her expression softens slightly. "Then I'm sorry. This must be difficult for you."
The unexpected compassion nearly cracks my carefully maintained composure. "Thank you."
"Clean out your desk before you leave today. I'll email you the paperwork."
Twenty minutes later, I stand in my office, a small box containing my personal effects in my arms. My desk, normally cluttered with case files and reference materials, looks painfully empty. Five years of work, reduced to a box of mementos and a swipe of my security badge as I exit the building.
Outside, the autumn air carries a hint of winter's approach. I stand on the sidewalk, uncertain where to go. Home feels too isolating, too empty. Without conscious decision, my feet turn toward Vren's apartment building.
The ache in my chest—the bond's physical manifestation—eases with each step in his direction. By the time I reach his building, the sensation has transformed from pain to a pleasant warmth, like sunshine from within.
I pause outside, weighing my options. Vren is likely at his cultural orientation session, scheduled for most new immigrants during their first weeks on Earth. I could wait for him, but the thought of explaining my professional disgrace makes me hesitate.
Instead, I find a bench in the small park across from his building and sit, placing my box of office belongings beside me.
The reality of my situation settles over me like the clouds gathering overhead—I've been suspended from my job, my client has been reassigned, and I'm sitting outside an alien's apartment building because being near it somehow makes the hollow feeling in my chest more bearable.
"Quite a morning," I mutter to myself.
A light rain begins to fall, droplets speckling the concrete around me. I should leave, find shelter, go home and start processing what's happened. But I remain seated, the rain dampening my hair and clothes, feeling strangely fitting for my current mess of a life.
My phone buzzes with a message from Tara: Just saw the news. Are you okay?
Am I okay? The question seems simultaneously simple and impossible to answer. Professionally, I'm in crisis. Personally, I'm experiencing a connection unlike anything I've ever known. Physically, I'm sitting in the rain outside the apartment of someone who was, until this morning, my client.
I don't know , I type back honestly. But I will be.
As I hit send, I realize I believe it. Despite everything—the suspension, the professional uncertainty, the bond that's turning my well-ordered life upside down—I feel a strange, quiet certainty beneath the chaos.
Whatever this is between Vren and me, whatever it's meant to become, I'm no longer fighting it.
The rain falls harder, but I make no move to leave.
Something is ending today—my role as Vren's caseworker, perhaps aspects of my professional identity I've long taken for granted.
But as I sit with the strange warmth of the bond pulsing in my chest, I can't escape the feeling that something else is just beginning.