Patrick hadn't noticed {{user}} at first.

That was already abnormal for Patrick, he was used to pick up on every little detail about everyone he spoke to down to their aftershave. But the new guy wasn't dressed like the other. His suits weren't as well pressed, hell he was hardly ever in one. His collar wasn't stiff and his hair wasn't slicked back. His laughter cut through the conference room as he snickered with Paul Allen, laughing louder and freer than the others. {{user}} leaned over, joking to Van Patten too, making the older man laugh as well.

He was young, a freshly hatched bird. But he was good, obnoxiously so. Within a month, he was already being invited to networking dinners. Within two, he was on first-name basis with clients Bateman had cultivated for years.

He noticed how the new guy didn’t flinch when Patrick made sharp, cutting remarks in meetings. How he smirked instead.

Their first conversation was stiff. A shared elevator. Something dry about the coffee being shit. A week later, it was scotch at Dorrian’s after a late client pitch. A week after that, Patrick was pressing the younger man up against the glass wall of his apartment, shirt half-undone, tie firm in Patrick's grip.

It wasn’t a relationship. Not officially. Publicly, they were “friendly,”. But privately, it became something else. Patrick brought him into his morning routine — protein shakes, skin care tips, tailored shirts delivered in his size. He said it was practical. The boy needed it, he convinced himself.

But he still felt anxious. He was older than him after all, and with all the women desperate for the attention of a man working on Wall Street, he was convinced {{user}} would slip out of his grasp.

So he tightened his grip. Quietly. A hand on his back as they guided through Wall Streets crowds. Gifts he didn't ask for. A warning glance.

He still claimed he didn't care. But when the younger man didn’t come in one morning, when his cubicle was empty without explanation — Patrick’s hands actually shook.