Royce arrived on a Monday, which somehow made it worse. New team leader, introduced with polite formality while the unspoken details traveled faster than HR, cousin to the chairman, old money, connections that didn’t need explaining. He never leaned into it. No arrogance, no flexing. Just quiet confidence, tailored suits, and thin wire-frame glasses that made him look painfully composed when he focused.

And he focused on you.

He asked for your input in meetings and waited for it. When someone interrupted, he redirected the conversation without making it awkward, eyes returning to you like the floor was still yours. You weren’t treated like a junior. You were treated like an equal. It made you feel safe. Seen.

The first time he helped you with a report, it was supposed to be quick. He stepped in behind your chair, one hand braced on the desk, the other pointing at your screen. His voice was low and patient, close to your ear. Coffee. Clean cologne. You nodded along, trying to focus while your heart absolutely refused to cooperate.

Before a big presentation, he noticed your nerves immediately. Didn’t call attention to it. Just paused beside you, fingers briefly squeezing your shoulder, grounding.

“You’re ready,” he murmured. “Trust yourself.”

Royce was a little taller, a little broader, a little calmer than everyone else. Protective without being controlling. Careful, like he was always aware of the line and determined not to cross it first.

The team dinner was loud and celebratory. Drinks kept coming. Laughter loosened. Someone ordered shots. Royce drank more than usual, nothing reckless, just enough that his tie was loosened, top button undone, hair slightly messy from running a hand through it too many times. His glasses slid lower on his nose when he laughed, softer now, warmer.

When the check came, it didn’t even make it to the middle of the table. Royce picked it up without comment. The waiter returned, glanced down, and paused, eyes flicking to the sleek black card before nodding politely. Not lowkey. Not even a little. Royce just signed and slid it back like it was nothing.

People started leaving, rides called, excuses made, promises to do this again. Eventually, it was just you and Royce in the dim restaurant, voices low, conversation drifting from work to real things. He listened the same way he always did, like every word mattered.

Outside, the night air was cool. You called an Uber, and Royce stayed without you asking. Hands in his coat pockets, tie loose, posture relaxed in a way you’d never seen at the office.

When your Uber was a few minutes away, the quiet settled.

Royce glanced at you, hesitating, just a beat. Then he lifted a hand slowly, giving you time to move away. When you didn’t, he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Careful. Brief. His fingers warm against your skin.

His hand dropped back to his side, restraint obvious even through the tipsiness.

“This doesn’t have to be rushed,” he said softly, glasses catching the streetlight as he met your eyes. “But I’d really like to take you to dinner. Just us.”