"Two cups. One story neither of them could speak."
The living room had become their unspoken treaty. Neutral ground.
A silent truce neither of us acknowledged but both relied on.
The Montez house is far too large for two people, yet somehow, most mornings funnel us here. Grey on the sofa, long legs crossed, scrolling through something on his phone. Me on the kitchen stool, laptop open, pretending I can focus on work when I absolutely cannot.
The kitchen and living room merge together — an open-plan architectural choice Victor used to call "civilized transparency."
I never liked it. No walls meant no hiding.
But now, with Grey there, silent, steady, not watching me but somehow aware of everything... the open space feels less like exposure and more like breathing room.
I was halfway through my morning work when an article popped up on the right side of my screen—one of those suggested pieces that appear because the algorithm thinks you're spiraling.
"Five Years Since the West Family Fire."
The name hits me before the headline does.
West.
My chair turns slowly, creaking a little. Grey doesn't look up at first, still scrolling.
"Grey?" my voice is softer than I expect.
He lifts his eyes, posture shifting with that familiar alertness.
"Yes?"
I angle my laptop toward him. "Is this... your family?"
He studies the screen for a long, tense beat. He doesn't lean fully—just bends slightly, placing one hand on the counter to brace himself. His jaw shifts once, subtly. He nods. "Yeah. That's them."
The article shows a charred frame of a vehicle, blurred faces of his parents in a collage. It feels wrong looking at it. Invasive.
"I didn't know," I say quietly.
He's already pulling away, back to calm. "It was a car accident. They didn't make it."
His voice is even. Too even. I wait, but he adds nothing else.
"Grey... I wasn't—"
He cuts in gently. "You don't have to tiptoe. Just don't research it too much." His tone tightens. "Most of what's online is wrong. And... I prefer not talking about it."
I nod, closing the tab.
For some reason, he stays instead of returning to the sofa. He sits on the stool next to mine, as if choosing proximity on purpose. For someone so self-contained, he has this odd instinct of coming close when silence gets heavy.
The closeness startles me. Grey is usually... over there.
A presence.
A shadow.
Not next to me.
Not near enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder.
I force myself to look away and focus on the document open on my laptop.
He scrolls again, casual, and asks, "What's Clint's problem exactly?"
I scoff. Loud. "Where do I begin? He's a hidden threat to humanity. A narcissistic, overconfident snake."
Grey lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Accurate, I assume?"
"Very." I spin my pen between my fingers. "I can see why he and Victor were best friends. Both loved the same things. Both hated the same things."
Grey shifts slightly, eyes narrowing. "Hated what?"
"Losing," I say immediately. Then, "And HavenCore."
The air changes. His shoulder stiffens. Barely noticeable—but I catch it.
"Why HavenCore?" he asks, tone controlled.
"No idea," I say honestly. "Victor never told me. I only overheard a conversation once. He didn't like how successful HavenCore was compared to Montez." A pause. "He... resented them."
Grey nods but something unreadable flickers in his eyes, like a thought he doesn't want to voice.
Miranda arrives then, placing two mugs on the counter—mine steaming, his deliberately cold. "Why don't you drink hot things?" I ask before thinking
He's vague. "Doesn't sit well with me yet."
Yet?
Odd answer.
I let it go. Mostly because I notice something else — the way he flinches, almost imperceptibly, when my pen clinks against the ceramic mug.
A metal-sharp sound. Simple.
But it hits something in him.
I slide the pen silently onto the counter.
He exhales just a fraction. I pretend not to notice. "We should get going before we're late."
We walk to the door, and just as Grey locks it, I freeze.
"My phone. It's in my room—I left it charging."
He nods. "I'll get it." But he pauses, expression unreadable. "You said never to go into your bedroom without permission."
I try not to look embarrassed. "Well... you have permission now."
He disappears upstairs with quiet steps and returns minutes later, handing it to me.
"Thanks," I murmur.
We walk outside.
"Sophie," he says, locking the door. "Do you always have to sit in the back?"
"You tell me."
He twirls the keys; effortlessly, annoyingly handsome. "Honestly, you can sit wherever you want. I don't mind" He gestures to the front passenger seat.
And that's how I was in the front.
As we pull out, he asks, "Been sleeping well?"
I blink. "Y—yeah. Gradually improving."
Then I remember: the tube of sleeping pills on my nightstand. Unused. I had stopped using them two days ago, since falling asleep didn't become that difficult.
He must have seen it. He doesn't pry, though.
Thank God.
A few minutes later, he pulls into a small dessert shop. "I'm hungry," he admits. "Miranda's breakfast didn't do anything."
I let out a silent "Oh". My appetite hasn't been really great the past few days.
He looks at me briefly before asking, "Should I get something for you?"
I shake my head.
He waits. Not moving. Not starting the car.
Just waiting.
The silence becomes heavy, then heavier, until I break. "I guess a cheesecake slice wouldn't hurt"
A tiny smirk touches the corner of his mouth before he gets out. When he returns, he holds one small box.
"Where's yours?" I ask.
"They ran out of mine," he replies calmly. Liar.
I open the box and eat slowly. One bite. Then another. Then all of it.
He starts driving again once I finish, and something in me knows... he bought the slice for me. Because he noticed my appetite. He knows I'm not eating.
He's always known.
At the construction site, I help carry small items, mostly organizational tasks. Grey follows like a shadow, but less oppressive than before.
More like... protection in motion. I talk again with the older lady worker.
She keeps glancing toward Grey, making not-so-subtle comments about how handsome he is.
I ignore them. Mostly.
After a couple of hours of helping around, we head back to the Montez Empire Building.
In my office, I'm reviewing documents. Grey's on the sofa, scrolling.
Normal. Calm. But then, my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number.
A photo.
My breath stops as I open it.
It's the moment the brick almost hit me.
Grey pulling me aside.
Frozen in mid-motion.
Then the next text: "So close. I better do well next time."
My hand turns cold.
Then another: "Did you see my little present for you?"
I look up—and freeze.
The vase on the coffee table, which was empty, yesterday... was now filled with a single red rose. Correction: A burnt red rose.
"Grey..." He follows my gaze. His eyes sharpen instantly. "Was that here earlier?" I whisper.
He shakes his head. "No. I thought Janice or one of the cleaners put it there."
"No one did," I whisper. "Someone got into my office. Past security." My throat closes. "How—how did they get in here? How did they—"
Grey is already standing, jaw set. "Tell me everything," he says. His voice is calm. Controlled. But something terrifyingly sharp burns beneath it.
And for the first time since Victor's death... I don't feel alone.
I don't remember when I started talking; maybe right after Grey closed the office door, maybe right after he placed the burnt rose gently on the table as if it were something fragile instead of something threatening.
All I know is that once the first sentence left my mouth, the rest came out like a dam finally bursting. "I don't understand any of this anymore," I said, pacing behind my desk, fingers trembling. "It's not just this rose. It's everything. It's been everything for weeks."
Grey stood near the sofa, arms crossed, posture steady—almost unnervingly calm. His eyes followed me, quietly assessing. Waiting.
I didn't let myself stop. "I keep finding these roses, always red, always placed somewhere only I would see them. At home, in my own bedroom – under my pillow. In this office. On my office table, on my first day—did you know that? In the meeting room, behind Clint when he was talking about the stupid nonsensical commercial building. I didn't tell anyone, not because it wasn't scary, but because I thought I was misreading everything. I thought maybe it was a stupid coincidence or someone's idea of a... of a joke."
My voice strained on the last word.
Grey didn't speak. Didn't interrupt. He just let me empty out years of bottled fear that had nowhere left to go.
"And then the café—Cup of Dreams."
I stopped pacing. My breath hitched. "The minutes before the blast, I saw her. A girl who looked exactly like me—same height, same hair, same posture—she walked in right before the explosion. And I know how that sounds, okay? I know I sound insane but I swear on everything—she looked like me."
I swallowed hard. My heartbeat was too loud, too fast, like it wanted out of my chest.
Grey's expression tightened, but he still didn't react verbally. Not yet.
"And the house—God, the house—" My throat burned. "I was getting ready for bed and I heard crashes and practically heard the whole house getting torn apart while being in my bedroom. Everything was destroyed. Every cabinet forced open. Every drawer ripped apart. Every furniture, broken and shattered. All glass ornaments and drinking glasses were thrown and the pieces were everywhere, like some weird abstract art. All the curtains, sofas and anything that had some kind of fabric material, was torn apart and scattered, as if someone was searching for something I don't even have. Do you know how many security measures are installed in that house? Do you know how many?" My voice shook. "A lot. Enough to keep out someone who knows how to break into systems. But they still got in."
I dragged a shaky hand through my hair and kept going.
"And now—now they're in my office too." I motioned toward the burnt rose. "Do you see what that means? This place has 24/7 surveillance. Guards. Restricted floors. Fingerprint access. So how did they get in? How did they put that there? How did they know we would be here today and that I'd see it? How—"
I stopped.
Because Grey stepped forward. Just one step.
But it was enough to freeze me.
He didn't grab me or touch me—he didn't need to. His presence alone felt like a wall sliding into place between me and the panic spiraling out of control. "Sophie," he said quietly.
That was all it took for the room to go still. I blinked at him; breath sharp, uneven.
Grey's voice was low, steady; calmer than mine had been in weeks. "Breathe."
"I-I am," I muttered, even though my chest felt constricted.
"No," he said, stepping closer. "You're spiraling. Slow down." His eyes held mine; not harsh, not impatient, but grounding, like he was anchoring me to the floor. His tone didn't rise, didn't waver. It was the calmest thing in the room.
"You don't need to figure everything out right this second," he continued. "You're overwhelmed. And right now, panic is doing the talking."
I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Grey glanced briefly at the rose, then back at me. "We're not ignoring this," he said. "And you're not dealing with it alone anymore."
That sentence rooted itself deep and unexpectedly, steadying.
He exhaled slowly. "We'll sort through the threats. All of them. One at a time. But you need to breathe first."
My legs suddenly felt weak, as if adrenaline had been holding me upright all this time and finally let go. I leaned back against the table edge, gripping the wood. Grey didn't move closer, didn't crowd me. He simply stayed where he was; solid, present, unwavering.
"For now," he said gently, "you're safe."
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to.
But for the first time in weeks, my breathing started to even out. slowly, shakily, but enough.
Grey watched, making sure. And in that quiet office, with a burnt rose lying between us like a warning, something shifted;
Not romance, not closeness, but something like an unspoken pact.
A decision.
I wasn't facing this alone anymore.