Neville paused outside Grayson's office, smoothing down his perfectly pressed shirt—a nervous habit born back in the black hellhole of learning.
A deep breath did little to calm the restless pounding in his chest. He raised his hand and knocked. The sound rang through the empty hallway like a judge's gavel.
"Enter." A deep, commanding voice was heard from the inside.
The voice from within was low, deep, and absolute. It didn't just invite—it commanded.
Neville swallowed hard, memories of their first meeting flashing before his eyes. The way Grayson had looked at him back then—piercing, unreadable—it still made his insides flutter.
The door slid open with a muted hiss, and Neville stepped inside, a polite smile firmly in place. The late afternoon light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching a faint shimmer in his hazel-brown hair. His ocean-blue eyes, carefully dulled behind practical glasses, found Grayson immediately.
Grayson stood behind his massive black desk, the panoramic view of the city skyline behind him. Black hair slightly disheveled—like he'd been dragging his fingers through it—hinted at an uncharacteristic behavior in that usual composure.
It was a rare sight.
It seemed that he had just ended a call.
Then those silver eyes, sharp as a blade's edge, turned to him.
And his brow furrowed.
Not in simple annoyance, but something colder.
What did I do? Neville's mind tripped over itself, replaying every conversation, every casual word in search of an answer.
Grayson's gaze followed his approach—steady, unblinking. It was the same look he had been giving Neville for weeks.
Assessing. Heavy. Almost too much.
The silence stretched, thick, suffocating, and deliberate. Neville could hear his pulse roar in his ears.
Enough. Something inside him rebelled.
He straightened. Chin up. The polite, agreeable employee mask didn't just crack; he let it fall away. Ocean-blue eyes met silver, without flinching, for the first time since he'd walked inside. He let his true nature shine through—the real personality trait of a dominant omega mermaid.
I will not cower, he told himself, fierce and unwavering. Not for him. Not for anyone.
And for a heartbeat, the air between them seemed to hum with something dangerous.
Grayson's eyebrow lifted—not in surprise, but in something far harder to name. Interest? Approval? A silent warning? Impossible to tell.
But he still didn't say anything.
As if their silent standoff had never happened at all, Grayson shifted his attention back to the holographic displays hovering above his desk.
Bryan looked up from his second workstation inside Grayson's office. Neville hadn't even noticed him come in earlier, but now the man was methodically sorting files. His polite smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
Neville caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
Bryan had been with Grayson for years before Neville arrived. If anyone could read Grayson's moods, it was him.
"Legal has signed off on all amendments, sir," Bryan reported smoothly, his voice polished with long practice. "Final review is scheduled for 0900 tomorrow." He stacked the last of the memory chips with practiced ease.
Grayson's single nod was curt, final—a dismissal without words.
As Bryan turned to leave, his eyes met Neville's. Bryan's expression didn't falter. But, there was a glint in his eyes—something about this moment amused him.
What's so funny? Neville thought, his jaw tightening.
Then Bryan was gone. The office door slid shut with a soft hiss. The sound seemed to suck the remaining air from the room—it felt larger and quieter.
And then he was alone with Grayson Maxwell.
Neville let his gaze drift, not because he didn't already see the room when he came in, but because looking directly at Grayson was somehow more dangerous than touching a live wire.
The wall of meticulously aligned military commendations. The shelves of rare, leather-bound first editions from across the galaxy spoke of a man who valued history. The corner collection of what looked like Old Earth artifacts—weathered coins, pottery shards, and a chess set carved from genuine ivory, a relic of a lost world.
And at the center of it all, the massive desk. A minimalist workstation. Holographic projections hovered above it. But a single, delicate porcelain teacup sat empty on its warmer. A fragile thing in a room of power.
Neville could feel it—Grayson's gaze, steady as a locked targeting system, tracking him like someone who never lost sight of his objective.
He finally forced his eyes back to the desk. Grayson had swiveled in his chair to face him.
"You need something?" Grayson asked, acting like he wasn't expecting Neville to come.
His voice had a low, intimate rumble that seemed to reverberate through Neville's bones.
Before Neville could think of a reply, his attention was involuntarily drawn to the delicate porcelain tea set at the edge of Grayson's desk. The contents had long since gone cold, a stagnant shadow of what it should be.
Something in Neville stirred—something deep, instinctive, and unbidden. His body moved before his mind caught up, drawn to that empty teacup the way a moth was attracted to flame.
The Basic Secretarial Skill had been thorough with its lessons, but this was different. The System had etched something deep into him—a near-supernatural awareness of Grayson's habits, the rhythm of his preferences, the small things that no one else would notice.
Grayson's hand moved. Barely. Just the index finger, extending almost lazily toward the cup.
To anyone else, it might have been meaningless. A random twitch.
To Neville, it was a silent, irrefutable command. Clear and Absolute.
Without a word, he crossed to the inconspicuous kitchenette in the corner. His movements were smooth, almost ceremonial. From the jade container, he lifted the premium Longjing leaves—bright green spears that breathed their grassy, chestnut-sweet, delicate fragrance into the air.
He didn't think about the water temperature—his hands simply knew: seventy-eight degrees, not a degree more. The steeping time: exactly two minutes, forty-five seconds. The cup: warmed and dried first, to cradle the tea like it deserved.
The motions flowed one into another—water's low murmur, the soft whisper of tea leaves falling into the pot, porcelain meeting porcelain in a gentle chime. The silence in the office was no longer empty; it was filled with the sounds of this ritual. A quiet that felt alive.
Neville didn't need to turn to know that Grayson's gaze was on him, steady and unblinking, watching each precise gesture as if it revealed something important. That silver stare pressed against his back like a hand between his shoulder blades.
He didn't dare turn. To meet that gaze now would be to break the spell.
He poured the tea, and a steady stream filled the cup. His long, elegant fingers cradled the heated porcelain as he set it on its saucer with barely a sound—porcelain kissing porcelain.
The office was filled with the subtle perfume of freshly brewed Longjing, grassy-sweet with a trace of roasted chestnut. It was a scent that seemed to make Grayson's shoulders relax, just slightly.
Neville carried the cup back with that same unconscious grace, each step measured, unhurried, and steady as he approached the desk. He set it down on the heating pad without a sound at exactly the right angle—at four o'clock, perfectly within reach without forcing Grayson to look away from his work.
Exactly the way Grayson liked it—though he had never once spoken that preference aloud. But it was one Neville knew like the back of his hand.
Grayson hadn't moved through the entire time, but something in his expression had shifted, his gaze had sharpened. He had narrowed eyes with quiet assessment and unnerving calculation. He watched Neville's tense figure retreat, seeing a trail of goosebumps forming on his skin.
Only the soft clink of porcelain broke the silence.
Grayson's long fingers wrapped around the cup with the familiar ease that spoke of habit. He lifted it to his lips, took a slow, unhurried sip—
And froze.
The world seemed to stop with him. The hum of the displays faded, and the city beyond the windows turned silent. Neville didn't dare breathe, trying to read the changes in Grayson's expression.
A flicker—barely there—widened those silver eyes. Then it was gone, buried beneath a return to that familiar, unreadable mask. His brows drew together by a fraction. A muscle in his jaw ticked as he lowered the cup to its saucer with deliberate, unhurried movements. The kind that somehow made the moment feel heavier.
The silence pressed between them, thick, weighted, waiting to be broken.
The silence that followed was a living thing, thick with questions Neville couldn't answer. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. What did I do wrong? Was it the temperature? Too long on the steep?
Neville's pulse thundered in his ears, his palms damp. What did I just do?
Then—
A red holographic screen popped up, shielding his vision. It was screaming urgency with words that jolted him awake from reality.
[Favorability +1%
Suspicion Level +10%
Risk Level: Low
Recommendation: Make an excuse.]
Cold sweat began to trickle down his spine.