Vox always claimed he didn’t have time for you—he made a point of reminding you of that whenever you hovered too close. And yet, despite all his snarking, he never actually sent you away for long. So you kept trailing after him, orbiting him like a satellite he insisted he didn’t need. He’d snap, glitch, hiss through static for you to give him space… only for you to quietly return the moment the distortion settled.

It bothered you more than you liked to admit. But you’d sooner swallow glass than tell him that.

Right now, you were tucked off to the side of the conference room while he and the other Vees droned through another strategy meeting. Vox didn’t spare you much more than a flicker of light from his screen-face—barely acknowledging you at all. Every so often you spoke up with a suggestion, and he responded with a dismissive hum or a sharp look, but he never told you to leave. Not once.

When the meeting finally wrapped up, Valentino and Velvette disappeared to chase their own agendas. Vox, however, returned to his office, muttering something about loose ends to tie up.

The room was dark when he stepped inside. The only glow came from the soft blue shimmer of the aquarium wall and the cold flicker of his own screen. He didn’t bother with the lights—it wasn’t unusual. He liked the aesthetic, the controlled ambience, the way the reflections sharpened the angles of his suit.

He grabbed a sleek laptop from his desk and walked straight to the aquarium, lowering himself to sit on the floor in front of it. It wasn’t luxurious, not by his standards, but he liked being near his “babies”—the sharks drifting lazily through the water like they owned the place. He set the laptop beside him, then tapped the floor with two fingers without even looking at you.

“Come on, clingy,” he muttered, the word softened by a faint electronic buzz. “I don’t have all damn night.”

It wasn’t an affectionate request. He’d never admit to anything like that. But it was an invitation.

Which was more than he gave almost anyone.

You settled beside him without argument. He immediately pulled you closer, guiding your head into his lap with a smooth, mechanical confidence—as if this was simply the most efficient arrangement for him to work. He angled his screen toward the laptop, fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced precision, static whispering each time he shifted.

He didn’t speak. Not a snarky comment, not a complaint, not a single jab about you being distracting.