Page 135 of What We Become

I scoff. “Holden, I know people say you aren’t funny. But my God, you come up with some great ones.”

I’m back to the keyboard, tapping away while Holden sits quietly, drinking that terrible coffee he bought. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the faint whine of the cooling fans and the rasp of Holden slowly, methodically tearing the heat shield off his coffee cup.

“I’m sorry,” he says, eventually. “That was out of line. Your mom—whatever it is she does—is none of my business. Blame it on the cop brain.”

“Sure,” I say, because that’s easier than asking why the hell his cop brain is suddenly sniffing around my mother like she’s hiding a cartel under the hydrangeas.

Holden nods once, but he doesn’t look convinced by his own apology.

Which is impressive, honestly. Usually, Holden delivers apologies gift-wrapped in a grunt, then immediately starts kissing me. This one feels . . . unfinished. Like he backed away from a thought because he realized if he said it out loud, I might either laugh in his face or have a nervous breakdown in my own server room, and he wasn’t sure which outcome would be less annoying.

I swivel back toward the monitors and drag one of the packet windows wider.

“Anyway,” I say, because avoidance is an art form and I’m a patron of the arts, “unless you think Gloria has secretly trained Stephen in maritime evasion, we’re still stuck with the same problem.”

Holden sets his coffee on the floor beside his boot. “Walk me through it again.”

I side-eye him. “You just want to hear me say nerdy things.”

“I want to make sure you didn’t miss anything.”

“You flirt horribly. And honestly, you’re wasting your time. No sex in the server room. It’s a rule that must not be broken for the longevity of the equipment.”

Holden’s eyes go flat and bright in the way that usually means someone is about to get arrested, shot, or thoroughly ruined.

Then he stands.

I blink at him. “Oh no. No, no, no. That wasn’t an invitation.”

“It wasn’t?” He steps between my knees and pushes my chair back enough to give himself room.

“No. It was a very serious boundary. This is a clean room. Do you have any idea how⁠—”

He drops to his knees.

“Keep working.”

Oh.

Oh, that smug, terrifying motherfucker.

“Holden,” I say, voice going thin at the edges as his hands slide up my thighs, thumbs pressing them wider apart. “Absolutely not. You are not turning my server room into⁠—”

He looks up at me from between my legs, ice-blue eyes sharpened to a blade. “You said no sex in the server room, right?”

“Right. Because there is no sex in the server room.”

“Good,” he says. “Then this doesn’t violate policy.”

I stare at him. And then he drags my zipper down and pulls out my dick, and all the oxygen in the room immediately files a formal complaint.

My hands hit the desk on instinct. “You cannot just⁠—”

“Keep working, Milo.”

He takes me in his hand, strokes once, firm and measured, and I lose my ability to do anything but watch what he’s doing to me.

“Packet trace,” he says, as if we are absolutely continuing the conversation we were having and not about to commit several acts of desecration against workplace professionalism. “Walk me through the marina again.”