The morning after felt like walking on live wires.
Alex arrived at 7:55, coffee in one hand, tie still crooked from nerves. He kept his head down through the open-plan floor, dodging good-mornings and pretending his lips didn’t still feel bruised. Damian was already in the glass-walled conference room, running the 8 a.m. strategy huddle like nothing had happened. Crisp white shirt, charcoal vest, sleeves rolled again. When Alex slipped in late with the updated deck, Damian didn’t even glance up—just flicked two fingers toward the seat beside him.
But every time Alex looked over, he caught it: Damian’s eyes sliding sideways, dark and unreadable, lingering on Alex’s mouth for half a second too long. Then back to the screen. Professional. Controlled.
It made Alex’s skin burn under his coll
