Chapter 5: The Office Party

The annual Aether Solutions mixer was the kind of event George Holloway endured rather than enjoyed. He knew its purpose—networking, team-building, visibility for leadership—but that didn’t make the chatter any less grating or the forced laughter any less hollow.

The atrium was unrecognizable, stripped of its usual sterile efficiency. Colored up lights painted the walls in muted blues and silvers, as though the building itself had dressed for the evening. High-top tables dotted the floor, trays of

hors d’oeuvres (a French dish) circulating in the hands of caterers who smiled too much. A live jazz trio played in the corner, their music swallowed by the rise and fall of conversation.

George stood at the edge of the crowd, glass of sparkling water in hand, posture perfectly neutral. He had already shaken the necessary hands, exchanged the appropriate pleasantries. Now his goal was simple: blend into the background until it was late enough to leave without drawing notice.

think that glass of wine as water "-" and also a Lil straight

And then he saw him.

Mathew arrived late, as always, with the kind of casual grace that drew eyes the moment he entered. His tie was loosened, his jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, as though he had wandered in from something more interesting and wasn’t sure he’d stay. Within minutes, he had a circle of junior analysts around him, laughing at some anecdote George couldn’t hear.

George told himself to look away. He didn’t.

Mathew had always done this—commanded attention without trying, disarmed people with easy charm. It had been infuriating in college, when George had labored over every detail, every presentation, every grade, while Mathew breezed in at the last minute and still outshone half the room. And it was infuriating now, seeing him slip so seamlessly into Aether’s rigid environment, bending the atmosphere around him instead of bending himself to it.

But underneath the irritation was something else. Something George refused to name.

He turned toward the bar, if only to put distance between them. The bartender slid a glass across the counter just as another hand reached for it.

Their fingers brushed.

Static. Immediate, sharp, undeniable.

George looked up, and Mathew was there, close enough that the noise of the room blurred around them. Hazel eyes met his—unguarded, intent, sparking with the same dangerous amusement George remembered from nights long past.

“Careful, George,” Mathew said softly, his tone threaded with something only the two of them could hear. “You almost look human, holding a drink like that.”

George pulled his hand back, the glass in his grip like a shield. “Mr. Evans,” he replied, voice perfectly neutral, though his pulse betrayed him. “Enjoying the party?”

Mathew tilted his head, smiling curving slowly and deliberate. “Trying to. It’s hard when the most interesting person in the room is pretending not to exist.”

George’s throat tightened. He forced a sip of water, hoping the coolness would ground him. “You should focus on networking. Visibility is important for your career here.”

Mathew’s smile deepened. “Always looking out for me, huh?”

The implication hung between them, heavy with history. George didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

A colleague approached, laughing too loudly, and George seized the distraction. He excused himself with polished ease, slipping away from the bar, away from Mathew. But the touch lingered. That brush of fingers burned like it had branded him, and no amount of sterile corporate chatter could erase it.

Later, when the crowd began to thin and executives made their exits, George retreated to a quieter corner of the atrium. He had done his duty. Soon he could leave.

And then Mathew found him again.

“You’re terrible at parties,” Mathew said, leaning against the wall beside him, voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry. “Still hiding in corners. Some things never change.”

George didn’t look at him. “Not everything needs to change.”

Mathew studied him for a moment. “Maybe not. But some things… maybe they shouldn’t stay the same either.”

It was too close. Too much. George set his glass down on the nearest table with careful precision, his hand steady only because he willed it to be. “This is neither the time nor the place, Mr. Evans.”

“Then when?” Mathew asked. Not mocking now, not amused—earnest, sharp, cutting through every defense. “Because every time I look at you, it feels like we’re still in that dorm room. And every time you look at me, I know you feel it too.”

George finally turned to face him, composure cracking for the briefest second. He saw it in Mathew’s eyes—the challenge, yes, but also the vulnerability. The boy he had once known, layered beneath the man he had become.

For one dangerous moment, George almost let himself fall.

Instead, he pulled the mask back into place. His voice came out flat, final. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Evans.”

He walked away before Mathew could reply, his footsteps measured, his expression carved in stone. But inside, he carried the echo of that electric touch, the weight of unsaid words, and the gnawing certainty that the rules—his precious rules—were slipping further out of his grasp.

That night, long after the party lights dimmed and the building emptied, George sat alone in his glass office. The city glowed beyond the window, a grid of order and light. He pressed his palm against the cold surface of the desk, telling himself that the fracture could still be sealed, that the protocol would hold.

But even as he repeated the lie, he knew the truth. The crack had widened. And Mathew Evans was the fault line.

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