Grayson closed the panel with more force than necessary and grabbed a shirt from his closet, putting it on as he made his way toward the bedroom door. He needed to sit down and slowly try to reconstruct the missing days through whatever trace he had left.

The door slid open.

Grayson stopped dead in his tracks.

His penthouse looked objectively different. Not dramatically so, not in any way he could immediately pinpoint what it was. But there was something that hadn’t been there before.

Homey, was that it?

But he quickly dismissed it.

Grayson did not do ’homey.’

Even if he couldn’t remember what he did, he surely would prioritize comfort over efficiency. Every piece of furniture had been selected for aesthetic impact and practical function.

And yet.

There were things that hadn’t been there before.

He could see from the entrance of the hallway to the bedroom a blanket draped over the arm of his leather couch. A pair of slippers was tucked neatly beside the couch, which looked like his spare slippers.

His eyes looked around the living room, bewildered by the changes.

The kitchen next to the hallway showed signs of recent use. Clean dishes were drying on a rack, and a container of something like a homemade soup was cooling on the counter.

The temperature controls had been adjusted, a few degrees warmer than he typically kept them. Then, there was a faint scent in the air that he couldn’t quite place, but that made something in his chest tighten.

The smell of the ocean and some sweet undertone to it.

And then he saw the couch.

More specifically, he had a glimpse of what was on the couch when he walked closer to the kitchen.

There was a figure curled beneath a mountain of blankets. He could only see a tuft of hazel-brown hair visible against the pillow someone had placed at one end.

It was obviously a figure of a human.

Grayson’s heart stopped.

How could there be someone else in my house?!

Then it restarted, pounding hard against his chest like a trapped animal trying to escape. His feet moved without hesitation, approached in large, long strides until he was standing over the couch.

He looked down at—

Neville Hope.

His competent employee, who just became a temporary secretary not long ago.

An omega.

Sleeping on his couch, in his penthouse, wearing his shirt.

Grayson’s brain short-circuited.

For a long, frozen moment, he simply stared at Neville’s face.

He was fast and deep in his sleep. His glasses were nowhere to be seen, revealing the delicate curve of his cheekbones and the small red mole beneath his right eye.

The shirt he wore was clearly one of Grayson’s own, a casual thing he only wore around the house. It looked a lot bigger when worn on Neville’s smaller frame, the collar sliding off one pale shoulder to reveal a graceful neck and—

Grayson’s gaze locked onto that exposed nape intently.

No mark.

The skin was smooth, unblemished, utterly untouched—no bite, no bruise, no evidence of an alpha’s marking.

Relief flooded his senses, making him dizzy enough that he had to brace himself against the back of the couch to keep from swaying.

He hadn’t marked him.

Whatever else had happened, at least he hadn’t done something beastly to a young adult omega.

But what had he done then?

The evidence was damning.

An omega—a young, attractive, unmated, unmarried omega—was in the private residence of a single, unmarried alpha during his rut. Wearing said alpha’s clothing. Sleeping on said alpha’s couch with an ease that spoke of familiarity, of comfort, of trust.

The implications were just...

Grayson realized with another wave of panic how terrifying this situation was.

If anyone found out about this, his reputation wouldn’t just be damaged.

It would be annihilated.

The CEO of Maxwell Corporation, taking advantage of his own employee during a rut period?

It didn’t matter that he had no memory of inviting Neville here; he didn’t even have any idea of how this situation had come about.

And worse than the professional fallout was the personal one.

The thought that he might have—that he could have—

He needed answers.

Now.

"Hope." His voice came out rougher than intended, cracking on the single syllable. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hope, wake up."

The bundle of blankets stirred. A soft sound was heard from underneath, something like a grumble and a protest.

"Hope." Grayson reached out, intending to shake his shoulder, but his hand hovered uncertainly in the air. The gesture felt too intimate, too presumptuous, given the circumstances. "Please, wake up."

The blankets moved, and a hand emerged from it and found his where it hung suspended over the couch. Before Grayson could react, that hand closed around his hand, warm and surprisingly strong, and patted it gently.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

It seemed like he was comforting a fussy child or a particularly anxious pet.

Grayson stared at their joined hands, utterly baffled.

What was happening? Why was Neville patting him? Why did that small, casual gesture make his chest feel complicated?

"Hope." He tried to put some strength into his voice, though it was difficult when his hand was being held hostage, and his brain was all over the place. "Hope, I need you to wake up and explain what’s going on."

"Uggh." Blankets and pillows muffled the sound, but it was distinctly annoyed. Then, barely audible: "Grayson, don’t move around. I’m still sleeping."

Grayson.

Not ’Mr. Maxwell.’

Not ’sir.’

Not even ’boss.’

But, Grayson.

He called him by his name, so naturally it didn’t feel that anything was amiss.

His heart kicked up to another speed. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

"Hope." He didn’t even try to keep the desperation out of his voice now. "Hope, please. I don’t— I need you to wake up—"

The blankets exploded.

Well, not literally exploded. But Neville sat up abruptly, which yanked the blanket up in the air.

His hand that had been patting Grayson so condescendingly shot out and grabbed the front of Grayson’s shirt, and pulled him close.

Grayson, caught off guard and still unsteady, toppled forward.

And Neville kissed him.