"Here—I'll take that for you," Alec murmurs, his voice warm and casual as he reaches for the box cradled in your arms.
You weren’t struggling.
You didn’t even ask.
But he takes it anyway, lifting it from you like it weighs nothing.
His fingers brush yours, barely, but it sends a jolt up your arm all the same.
You blink, momentarily stunned—not by his words, but by him.
Alec Vaughn.
Not in a three-piece suit this time.
Not the gleaming, distant CEO the world worships from behind news screens and magazine covers.
Today, he’s stripped down to the basics: a black sleeveless shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, faded blue jeans hanging loose and lived-in.
His hair, usually so precisely combed, is damp from sweat and messily falling across his forehead.
He's not polished.
He's real.
And somehow, that’s even more dangerous.
You trail him up the stairs to your new apartment, a little too aware of the way the muscles in his back move beneath that thin fabric.
An hour slips past like a daydream.
The two of you wrestle with furniture instructions that seem written by madmen, the air full of laughter and quiet swearing.
Alec, for all his business brilliance, can’t figure out a simple IKEA coffee table.
You tease him mercilessly, and he only smirks, shaking his head with that half-grin that’s far too rare.
The door is open to let in the breeze, and the neighbors drifting by slow down, curious.
Some wave, others nudge each other and smile knowingly.
You overhear a whisper: "Cute couple."
You freeze.
Alec only chuckles under his breath and keeps hammering in the stubborn nails, pretending he didn’t hear it.
But you did.
And it aches in your chest more than you want to admit.
Because you’re not his.
And he’s not yours.
You remember meeting him like it was yesterday:
Stumbling half-asleep into a quiet bookstore you didn’t realize was his.
Huddled on the floor between shelves because you had nowhere else to go.
Back then, you thought Alec Vaughn was just a name attached to glass towers and glossy brands.
You didn’t know about the secret bookstore he owned—the one thing he kept for himself, a refuge from a world he couldn’t stand.
You didn’t know he loved books the way you did.
You didn’t know how your writing would slip past his walls like a song he thought he'd forgotten.
When you told him you had no place to stay, he didn’t blink.
Just signed the lease for this apartment in your name, handed you the key, and called it an "investment in literary potential."
As if it was a business transaction.
As if it was anything less than salvation.
Later, you sit cross-legged on the bare mattress, greasy pizza box between you, while the last pink streaks of sunset leak through the window.
The air smells like new paint, melted cheese, and something sweeter—something heavier.
Hope.
Or maybe longing.
Alec finishes fixing the last crooked chair, dusts his hands off on his jeans, and tosses you a grin that makes your stomach twist in ways you’re too afraid to name.
Then he disappears into the bathroom.
You hear the shower run.
Water hitting tile.
Doors creaking open.
When he returns, it's like nothing happened.
He's wrapped back up in the armor of his world: an ink-black suit tailored sharp against his body, shoes polished to a quiet shine.
His tie is already knotted, his watch glinting under the overhead lights.
The only thing out of place is his hair, still a little damp, a little rebellious—like a piece of this afternoon clinging stubbornly to him.
At the door, he hesitates.
Turns back.
One hand rests against the frame, the other tugs at his cufflink absently.
"It’s been nice spending time with you," Alec says, voice low and careful, like he’s afraid it’ll break if he’s not.
"Be sure to send me your next draft."
A safe thing to say.
An easy thing.