~Leon's POV~
"Yes," I replied, my voice steady. "It's for you."
He looked at me as if I were a stranger, his surprise so evident it almost made me smile.
"Unless you don't want it?" I added, raising an eyebrow.
"No, I… thank you, sir. Thank you," he said quietly, his voice subdued as he accepted the medicine.
I managed a small, subtle smirk before returning to my meal. Beck took his medicine in silence, looking strangely humbled.
As the quiet stretched between us, I remembered the upcoming holiday. It was my tradition to give all my staff a break for the weekend, both those working at the house and at the office. By Friday evening, the mansion and the workplace would be quiet, and everyone would be spending time with their families.
"That reminds me," I said, looking up from my coffee. "Since you're new, I should let you know there's a holiday coming this weekend. After we return home, everyone will be off to spend time with their families, and you're included."
I expected him to look relieved, perhaps even excited to get away from me. Instead, Beck's face fell. A shadow of profound sadness washed over him, dousing the small spark of life that had been in his eyes.
"Does it have to be this way?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Does everyone really have to leave for the holiday?"
"Yes," I replied, watching him closely. "It's a standard break."
"What if... what if I choose to stay?"
I set my cup down, truly puzzled now. "Don't you want to go home, Beck?"
He let out a short, hollow laugh, a sound so bitter it didn't belong on a face as young as his. He looked at me with a sad, weary smile. "There's no home for me to go to, sir. They truly hate me everywhere."
The weight of his words hit me. I thought of the crying I'd witnessed the night before.
"You think everyone hates you?" I asked, my voice firm, carrying a pragmatic edge.
"Yes… Mr. President," Beck admitted quietly. "Everyone hates me."
I studied him for a moment, trying to make sense of it, then asked, "But why let their opinions matter so much? Why should it matter what they think or say about you?"
Beck looked at me, his eyes hardening with a quiet, piercing intensity. "You wouldn't understand, Mr. President. You have everything power, money, respect. You can't possibly know what it feels like to be someone like me."
I opened my mouth, ready to press further, to tell him that having "everything" didn't mean I hadn't known the sting of loneliness, but Beck didn't give me the chance.
He pushed back from the table abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. "I'm done eating. Thank you for the breakfast… and the medicine, sir."
He gave a quick, mechanical bow and hurried away before I could utter another word.
I sat there in the sudden silence of the dining hall, feeling completely blindsided. I looked at his half-finished plate, a cold knot of confusion tightening in my chest.
What did I say wrong? I asked myself. I had tried to be logical, to give him strength, but it felt like I had only pushed him further into his shell.
I was still questioning my own words when Marcus approached, breaking my train of thought.
"Mr. President," Marcus said, bowing slightly as he entered the dining room. "I just wanted to inform you that everyone, including myself, is packed and ready for tonight's flight. The plane leaves at 6:35 PM, so we'll need to head to the airport a little earlier to make sure we're all on time."
I nodded, slipping my mask of professional composure back on. "Alright, that's good. Let the team know they did well. I'll go inform Beck to start preparing our things and make sure everything's ready for our 8:00 AM flight tomorrow."
"Understood, sir," Marcus replied before turning to coordinate the departures.
I couldn't finish my meal. The appetite I'd had was gone, replaced by a lingering sense of guilt I didn't know how to handle. I stood up and headed back to the suite. When I walked in, I found Becklan already there. He was bent over a suitcase, meticulously folding my shirts.
When he heard the door, he stiffened but didn't look up. He was pointedly avoiding eye contact, his movements mechanical and cold.
"I came to tell you to start packing," I said, my voice sounding more awkward than I had intended. "Our flight is early tomorrow morning. I didn't expect to find you in here already—how did you know?"
Becklan kept his head lowered, hands working steadily as he smoothed the wrinkles in my suit. "I heard the staff talking about their flights this evening, sir," he said quietly. "I figured we'd be leaving soon after, so I wanted to make sure everything was ready."
He spoke with a quiet, hollow efficiency that grated on my nerves. There was no spark, no retort, just the movements of a machine. This wasn't the fiery, sharp-tongued Becklan who had challenged me since day one, and the silence in the room felt heavier than the suitcases he was filling.
"You could stay," I blurted out.
The rustle of fabric stopped instantly. Beck froze, a silk shirt clutched in his hands. He slowly turned his head, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Are you... speaking to me, Mr. President?"
"Yes," I said, clearing my throat and trying to regain my composure.
"I could stay… where?" he asked, his voice confused.
"You can stay at my place," I said, eyes on the window to avoid his gaze. "If you don't want to go home for the holiday, you're allowed to stay while everyone else is away."
Beck looked up at me, his eyes searching mine to confirm if he had heard correctly. "You mean... I don't have to leave? You're letting me stay?"
"Yes," I replied, finally meeting his eyes. "You can stay."
In an instant, the heavy shadow that had been hanging over him vanished. A brilliant, radiant light flooded his face, and his eyes sparkled with a joy I hadn't seen since yesterday.
"Thank you!" he shouted, his voice full of relief.
Before I could even blink, he rushed toward me. He didn't stop until he collided with my chest, his arms throwing themselves around my neck in a fierce, impulsive hug. "Thank you, Mr. President! Thank you so much!"
I stiffened, my breath hitching in my throat. He was so warm, his heart hammering against mine, and he smelled incredible. He trembled with pure relief, clinging to me as if I were the only solid thing in his world.
He was so caught up in the moment, so overwhelmed with the thought of not being cast out, that he completely forgot who I was. He forgot I was his demanding boss; he forgot the "ugly" comments and the coldness. In that moment, I wasn't the President. I was just the person who had given him a place to belong.
I stood there, my arms hovering awkwardly in the air for a second, before they slowly, almost against my will, began to settle around his waist. I felt the warmth of him, the fragility of his frame. But before I could tighten my grip, he gasped, suddenly realizing what he was doing.
He pulled back quickly, his face flushing a deep crimson. "I—I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Mr. President," he stammered, offering a flustered, breathless smile before rushing back to the suitcase, his hands trembling as he resumed his work.
I watched him, my mind racing. What could be happening at that house? What kind of "home" was so terrible that he would rather spend his holiday in the silence of my place than return to it? I felt a burning need to know, not just a passing curiosity, but a deep, driving hunger to understand everything about him.
"Beck," I said, my voice low.
He paused, but didn't look up. "Yes, Mr. President?"
"Aren't you scared?" I asked, watching the way his shoulders tensed. "Everyone else will be gone. It will be just you and me in that house for the entire weekend."
Beck stopped folding and finally looked at me. He offered a slight, sad smile that reached his eyes but carried no warmth.
"No," he said softly. "I'm not scared. Because you aren't nearly as scary as my parents."
The way he said it…