Elena couldn't let it go.
She told herself she would. Told herself Marcus was a grown man who could make his own mistakes. Told herself Damian hadn't actually done anything wrong.
But she'd seen the tea. The note. The way Marcus had looked at her when she warned him — not grateful, not concerned. Distant.
Like she was the problem.
So on Tuesday night, Elena opened her laptop and started digging.
Damian Reid.
Twenty-five years old. No social media. No digital footprint before age twenty-two. His LinkedIn was bare — current job, one previous job, no recommendations, no posts, no connections visible.
That's not normal, Elena thought. Even private people leave crumbs.
She searched one of his previous company's name. A mid-sized logistics firm. Closed two years ago. Bankrupt. No public records of why.
Convenient.
Elena scrolled through archived employee directories. Found Damian's name. Found her own name. Found dozens of others.
Then she found a name she didn't expect.
Sarah Velez.
The woman who'd cried in the bathroom. The one who'd said "he's not what he seems" before transferring out.
Elena found her on Facebook. Living in another state now. Married. Different job.
Should I message her?
She stared at the screen for a long time.
Then she closed the laptop.
Not yet, she decided. Not until I have more.
Wednesday morning, Marcus was different.
Elena noticed it the second she walked past his desk. He didn't look up when she said good morning. Didn't smile. Didn't offer to grab her coffee.
"Hey," Elena said, stopping in his doorway. "You okay?"
Marcus looked up. His face was neutral. Polite. Closed.
"Fine. Just busy."
"Busy." Elena crossed her arms. "Since when are you too busy for a hello?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Elena, I have work—"
"So do I." She stepped closer. Lowered her voice. "Did something happen? Did Damian say something?"
The change was instant.
Marcus's eyes flickered. Not surprise. Not confusion. Defensiveness.
"Damian didn't say anything," Marcus said. "Why do you always bring him up?"
Because he's dangerous, Elena wanted to scream. Because you're not yourself when you're around him.
But she'd seen this before. At the old company. People getting close to Damian, then pulling away from everyone else. Isolating themselves without realizing it.
"I bring him up because I'm worried about you," Elena said carefully.
"Don't be."
"Marcus—"
"I said don't." His voice was sharper now. A blade wrapped in velvet. "I appreciate you looking out for me. But I can handle myself."
Elena stepped back.
She'd been dismissed.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Okay."
She walked back to her desk. Didn't cry. Didn't scream. Just opened her laptop and typed a message to Sarah Velez.
Hi. We worked together a few years ago. I know this is strange, but I need to ask you about Damian Reid.
She hit send before she could change her mind.
Damian noticed Marcus was short with Elena.
He'd been watching from the break room, coffee in hand, pretending to read the bulletin board. He saw Elena's face fall. Saw Marcus turn back to his screen like nothing had happened.
Good, Damian thought. He's pulling away from her.
But he couldn't celebrate yet. Elena was stubborn. She wouldn't give up just because Marcus was cold. She'd dig deeper. Find something. Invent something if she had to.
Damian needed to give Marcus a reason to trust him completely. A reason that had nothing to do with Elena.
A secret.
A real one.
Damian found Marcus in the parking lot after work.
"You're leaving early," Damian said, falling into step beside him.
"Long day." Marcus didn't look at him. "You heading out too?"
"Yeah." Damian hesitated. For a moment, he looked almost nervous — a performance, but a good one. "Hey. Can I ask you something?"
Marcus stopped. Turned.
"What?"
Damian looked down at his hands. His scarred knuckles. The hands that had done things Marcus would never know about.
"I told you I was lonely," Damian said quietly. "At the bar. You asked how long. I said as long as I can remember."
Marcus waited.
Damian looked up. His grey eyes were soft. Vulnerable. A mask so perfect it had taken him years to build.
"I lied," Damian said. "Not about being lonely. About not knowing why."
Marcus's expression shifted. Concern replaced the distance.
"What do you mean?"
Damian took a breath. Held it. Released.
Timing, he thought. Make him wait. Make him want to know.
"I don't feel things," Damian said. "Not the way other people do. I never have."
The words hung between them in the cold evening air.
Marcus stared at him. "What?"
"I can mimic emotions. Laughter. Sadness. Anger. I've gotten very good at it. But underneath..." Damian touched his chest. Right over his heart. "There's nothing there. Just... blank."
Blank copy, he thought. You don't know how true that is.
Marcus took a step closer. His brow was furrowed. Not in fear — in pity.
Good, Damian thought. Pity is closer than trust.
"Have you seen a doctor?" Marcus asked. "A therapist?"
"It's not something you can fix." Damian smiled. A sad smile. Practiced. "I've accepted it. I just... I wanted you to know. Because you're the first person in years who made me want to feel something. Even if I can't."
Marcus was quiet for a long moment.
Then he did exactly what Damian had predicted.
He reached out and put a hand on Damian's shoulder.
"You feel something," Marcus said. "You wouldn't have told me this if you didn't."
Damian looked at Marcus's hand. Warm. Solid. Real.
Yes, he thought. Touch me. Feel sorry for me. Come closer.
"Maybe you're right," Damian said softly. "Maybe you're the first thing I've ever felt."
Marcus didn't know what to do with that.
He stood in the parking lot, hand on Damian's shoulder, watching the younger man's face shift through emotions Marcus couldn't quite name.
He's broken, Marcus thought. He's not dangerous. He's broken.
But somewhere beneath that thought, another one lurked.
Why is he telling me this?
They'd known each other for less than two months. They'd had one movie night and one drink at a bar. They weren't close. Not like that.
And yet Damian was standing here, confessing something Marcus suspected he'd never told anyone.
Because he trusts me, Marcus told himself.
Or because he's performing, Elena's voice whispered.
Marcus pushed the voice away.
"I'm not going anywhere," Marcus heard himself say. "If you need... someone. I'm here."
Damian's smile was small. Fragile. "Thank you."
They stood like that for a moment longer. Then Marcus dropped his hand. Cleared his throat.
"I should go," Marcus said.
"Same time next week?" Damian asked.
Marcus almost said yes. Almost fell back into the pattern.
But something stopped him. Something about the way Damian had told his story — too perfectly. Too neatly. Like a script.
"Let me think about it," Marcus said.
Damian's expression didn't change. But his eyes went cold for just a fraction of a second.
There, Marcus thought. There it is.
Then the warmth was back. The vulnerability. The sad smile.
"Of course," Damian said. "Take your time."
Marcus got in his car and drove away.
His hands were shaking.
Damian watched Marcus's car disappear.
Then he pulled out his phone and opened his notes app.
He didn't say yes.
Damian stared at the words.
He saw something. At the end. His face changed.
Damian's thumb hovered over the keyboard.
I showed him too much. Or not enough. I need to recalibrate.
He closed the app. Didn't write anything else.
For the first time in years, Damian felt something he couldn't name.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger.
It was uncertainty.
Marcus wasn't supposed to hesitate. He was supposed to say yes. To fall deeper. To trust Damian more than he trusted Elena.
He's stronger than I thought, Damian realized.
Good.
That makes it more interesting.
That night, Marcus didn't sleep.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in the parking lot.
"I don't feel things. Not the way other people do."
"You're the first person in years who made me want to feel something."
"Maybe you're the first thing I've ever felt."
Marcus's chest ached.
He should feel honored. Trusted. Special.
Instead, he felt trapped.
Because if Damian was telling the truth — if he really couldn't feel anything — then what did he want from Marcus? Not love. Not friendship. Something else. Something Marcus couldn't name.
And if Damian was lying...
Marcus didn't want to think about that.
He rolled over. Closed his eyes.
But when he finally slept, he dreamed of hands.
Large hands. Scarred knuckles.
Reaching for him in the dark.