NOAH

The fluorescent lights of the open-plan office hummed with a low-grade anxiety that usually set my teeth on edge, but as I rounded the corner to Mason’s desk, the atmosphere shifted. Mason didn’t just look up; he experienced a spiritual awakening.

He was slumped over a spreadsheet, the blue light of the monitor washing out his features until he looked like a weary ghost. Then, he smelled it. The scent of grease, salt, and hope wafted from the brown paper bag in my hand.

"Noah," he wheezed, his head snapping toward me. "Tell me that’s what I think it is. Tell me you’ve brought salvation in a wrapper."

"Double cheeseburger, extra pickles, and the fries they definitely didn’t cook twice," I said, setting the bag down on a stack of ignored memos.

Mason didn’t use words. He made a sound, a low, guttural whimpering, and reached for the bag with both hands like a man grasping for a life raft.

He didn’t even wait to fully unwrap the burger before taking a bite, his eyes fluttering shut in genuine, unadulterated worship. Even as he chewed, his left hand remained on the keyboard, typing out a final string of data.

"I... owe... you... my... life," he managed to choke out between mouthfuls.

"You owe me fifteen bucks," I corrected, pulling out a borrowed chair from a nearby empty cubicle and sinking into it.

I watched him eat. There was something profoundly comforting about Mason. In a world of wolves like Cassian and vipers like Nick, Mason was just... Mason.

He was hungry, he was tired, and he was currently experiencing a level of joy that most people only find in religious texts. His eyes were actually watering. If I’d asked, he would have claimed it was the steam from the fries, but we both knew better.

As Mason continued his frantic consumption, my mind drifted back to the elevator ride. I need a hobby. The thought had been a persistent itch since I’d left Cassian’s desk. I needed a version of myself that didn’t just exist in the gaps between Cassian’s phone calls.

"Mason," I said, leaning back.

"Mm-ph?" He didn’t look up from the fries.

"If you wanted to do something with your time... you know, outside of work. To keep yourself busy. What would you do?"

Mason stopped chewing. He looked at me, a stray fry hanging precariously from his lip. "Are you asking me about hobbies, Noah? Like, actual recreational activities?"

I felt the heat rise in my neck. "I mean, yeah. Just. Theoretically. I feel like I’m spending too much time... waiting for things."

Mason gave a slow, deliberate blink, recalibrating his entire worldview. "Noah Bennett is asking me for lifestyle advice. This is a historic day. I should write this down, but I’m too busy eating this beautiful burger."

"It’s not that dramatic," I muttered.

"Oh, it is," Mason countered, his brain finally clicking into gear. The list began immediately. "Okay. Wine tasting. Very cultured, very expensive. You’d look sophisticated holding a glass and pretending to smell leather and ’notes of oak.’ Pottery? It’s calming, apparently, though you’d probably get frustrated and smash the clay. Photography? Everyone goes through a phase where they take blurry pictures of pigeons. Or a book club! There’s one near my apartment, mostly middle-aged women, but they’re lovely and they bring lemon cake."

I frowned. "Those are either very expensive or sound like something my grandmother would do. Are these things you actually do?"

Mason paused, a sudden, bright light appearing in his eyes. The specific brightness of a man who has just found his calling. He set the burger down. This was serious. This required both hands.

"The gym," he said.

"The gym," I repeated, flatly. "I’ll pass."

"Noah. Listen to me. The gym," Mason said, gesturing at himself with a flourish that was only slightly undermined by the ketchup on his thumb. "I go after work every day. You should join me. It’ll change your life. Look at me. You think this definition happened by accident?"

I looked at him. Really looked. "Mason, you look exactly the same as you did three months ago."

"I have definition!" he cried, offended. "You can’t see it under the button-down, but it’s there. I’m a temple, Noah. A slightly soft, burger-loving temple." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a tone of genuine concern. "But look at you. You’re too skinny. Like, concerningly. Do you even eat when I’m not around to demand it?"

"I eat constantly," I protested.

"You need muscle," Mason insisted. "For your health. For your posture. For your... stamina."

The word stamina hit me like a physical blow.

Immediately, my brain betrayed me. It bypassed the gym, bypassed health benefits, and went straight to the last time I’d been in Cassian’s bed.

I thought of the way he fucked me, relentless, powerful, and utterly tireless. I thought about the way I’d been completely and thoroughly wrecked by him, my breath coming in jagged gasps while he seemed barely winded.

I remembered the way my legs had felt like water afterward, the way I’d gripped the silk sheets just to keep from drifting away.

I felt the flush start at my collar and race up to my ears. I stared at Mason’s desk with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb disposal.

Mason watched me. A slow, terrifyingly knowing grin spread across his face. "OH."

"I’m not..."

"You’re already thinking about it!" Mason pointed at me, laughing. "You’re thinking about impressing some chick. That face! Noah is imagining his future of getting laid..."

"I was thinking about the health benefits!" I snapped, the lie sounding thin even to me. "You were just listing them. Cardiovascular health. Bone density."

"Sure," Mason said, his voice dripping with mock-sincerity. "The bone density. Absolutely. I’ll introduce you to the owner. We’ll start this week. You’re going to thank me, Noah. You’re going to be a powerhouse."

"I’m going to regret this," I whispered.

"Same thing," Mason chirped, returning to his fries.

...

The rest of the afternoon was a slow crawl. I took some of Mason’s overflow work, mostly because I needed the distraction. I didn’t want to check my phone, but I did. Every fifteen minutes.

No messages. No calls.

The promise of dinner sat in the back of my mind, a fragile thing I was trying not to crush with too much expectation.

Cassian had looked at me with such intensity when he tipped my chin up, but then he’d walked out of that office like I was a footnote.

By the time 5:30 PM rolled around and the floor started to quiet, the disappointment had begun to settle in. It wasn’t dramatic; it was just a dull, familiar ache.

I closed my laptop and met Mason in the lobby. The building was emptying, a stream of exhausted professionals flowing out into the humid evening air. Mason was already mid-sentence as we hit the sidewalk.

"So, here’s the plan," Mason said, clapping me on the shoulder. "My apartment. We’ll pick up some rotisserie chicken, a six-pack of that imported beer I told you about, the stuff that actually tastes like something, and we’re watching the wrestling tournament. My bracket needs a witness, Noah. I’m currently third in the office pool."

I looked at the sidewalk, then at the bustling street. The image of Mason’s couch, the noise of the TV, and the uncomplicated comfort of a friend sounded... safe. It was a good way to bridge the gap that Cassian had left.

"Yeah," I said, a small smile finally appearing. "Okay. Chicken and beer. I can do that."

"Yes! And I bought the good beer, Noah. None of that watered-down, "

The sound reached me first. A low, rhythmic purr of a high-performance engine that cut through the standard city noise. My body knew it before my brain did. My heart rate spiked, a Pavlovian response I hated myself for.

A black sedan, polished to a mirror shine, pulled up to the curb beside us. The windows were up, dark and impenetrable, until the passenger side slid down with a smooth, electronic hum.

Cassian sat there. He looked exactly as he had that morning, straight-faced, unbothered, his dark hair perfectly in place. He looked at me as if pulling up beside a curb on a Monday evening was as ordinary as breathing.

"Get in," he said.

Mason froze. His jaw didn’t quite hit the pavement, but it was close. He scrambled to straighten his posture, his eyes wide. "Mr. Wolfe! Good evening, sir! I didn’t... we were just... sorry,"

Cassian gave Mason a brief, flicking glance, an acknowledgement that he was technically a physical object in the vicinity, before his eyes locked back onto mine.

"I have work for you, Noah," Cassian said.

I looked at Mason, then back at the car. I felt the surge of embarrassment at how quickly my resolve crumbled. I was a person with a problem. A deep, systemic problem that no amount of gym-induced stamina was ever going to fix.

"I have to..." I gestured vaguely at the car, looking at Mason with an apologetic wince. "Work. Sorry. The beer thing... another time?"

Mason opened his mouth, probably to say something about the chicken, but I was already moving. I opened the door and slid into the cool, leather-scented interior before he could finish a sentence.

The door clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the street, the smell of the city, and the reality of my friend. The car pulled away smoothly, merging into traffic.

I sat there, my pulse racing, staring straight ahead. I could feel Cassian’s presence beside me, a heavy, magnetic force that made the air feel thick.

You are pathetic, I told myself. You are an absolute disaster.

"You’re late," I said, my voice a low sound in the quiet car.

"I was waiting for a call," he countered, as I finally turned to look at him.

He didn’t smile, but something shifted in his eyes, a brief, dark spark of amusement. "I told you I’d be back. I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Noah."

I looked out the window as the city blurred past. I didn’t know what high-end restaurant we were going, and in that moment, as the black car wove through the streets, I realized I didn’t particularly care.