Ahem.
Mark clears his throat, breaking the silence that has hung over our table for the last ten minutes , ever since Aaron sat across from us... uninvited.
He just keeps eating his salad, elegantly holding wooden chopsticks, clearly handmade, with an A engraved at the top.
I've seen plenty of people eat mindfully, elegantly, carefully. Most of them were women, trying to appear feminine and classy.
But this.....this is the first time I've been flashbacked by a man's eating style.
His long fingers balance the chopsticks like I've seen in historical K-dramas — mindful bites, twenty seconds spent chewing each mouthful of grass.
Against him, both Mark and I look like cavemen. Mark, who'd been shoveling mouthfuls of pasta, suddenly takes smaller, more "decent" bites.
And me? I'd been tearing into my steak with zero cutlery etiquette, but suddenly I'm cutting my meat into smaller, neater pieces, chewing slowly like I care.
Annoying. Damn, why the hell does this guy eat like we're filming some palace drama where he's the Crown Prince?
"You're staring again, Nova," he says, dabbing his napkin against his lips so softly it's as if pressing too hard might hurt the napkin itself. Then he places it neatly back on his lap.
What the hell did he even dab away?
I force my professional mask back on, the one I'd set aside for my lunch break until he decided to invade it.
"You have elegant dining etiquette, Mr. Erikson."
By elegant, I mean you're making two starving people regret their table manners.
The corner of his lips twitches in amusement. He nods. "I'll take that as a compliment, Nova."
Mark clears his throat again, but this time he finally speaks instead of fake-coughing.
"I heard Mr. Erikson was the branch manager of Laurent & Cie's Monaco jewelry division." His calm tone carries a quiet dominance, like he's trying to test the waters, gain the upper hand.
My brow creases. A jewelry guy? What the hell is he doing in M&A? And as Deputy VP, no less? That's one hell of a leap from retail branch manager to Deputy VP of Laurent & Cie's second headquarters.
"Yes, I was," Aaron replies smoothly. "I worked there a couple of years and got a bit lucky to be here."
That damned voice of his , silent arrogance threaded through every word, making you question your own worth without him even trying.
Mark nods slowly. "It's not just luck. This position's been empty for nearly two years. The whole team's been carrying the weight."
I glance between them. Two calm types of danger, men you never see coming until they've already stolen your most precious possession.
The canteen's hum grows louder: laughter, gossip, silverware clinking, chairs scraping. But none of it softens the tension pressing down on our table.
Their eyes lock. Mark's analytic gaze collides with Aaron's cold, unreadable stare.
Discomfort prickles down my spine. My steak tastes like salt and iron. My palms sweat. I'm ready to jump between them if they so much as twitch wrong.
"Impressive track record, Mark," Aaron says at last, placing his chopsticks down, leaning back with quiet authority. "You deserve more than just a Senior Associate role."
Mark's eyes darken. His mask slips, just for a moment, showing his guardedness.
"I didn't think you'd be that interested," he says, cold, defensive.
Aaron doesn't flinch. Instead, he sneers faintly, shakes his head, fingers tapping lazily on the glass table.
"I'm very much interested in you, Mark. Now it's up to you how you use that interest."
The way he presses very is half curiosity, half threat.
Mark's jaw tightens. A vein bulges in his neck. His fist clenches around his fork so hard the metal trembles.
I sit straighter, panic rising in my chest. Aaron has struck a nerve, pushed Mark exactly where it hurts , and judging by his amused little smirk, he doesn't care.
"You shouldn't be curious about me, Mr. Erikson," Mark warns, voice low, chilled steel.
Aaron gasps lightly, almost playful, too innocent to be real. "What can I do? I'm already interested."
Slam.
The fork crashes into the table. I flinch, clutching my chest as my breath stutters. My throat goes dry, sweat gathers at the back of my neck.
Not now.
My right hand trembles. I grip my wrist, trying to steady it. Anxiety coils through my bones like a curse I'll never shake.
Mark opens his mouth, anger blazing off him in waves, ready to spill.
I bite down hard on my tongue, tasting blood, bracing myself for the outburst.
"I suggest you cool off outside, Mark."
Aaron's voice drops low and dangerous.
I glance at him. His jaw is clenched too tightly, his ears flushed red, his eyes sharp with fury.
Mark freezes. He's stiff. Through my anxious haze, I see it clearly.
He's scared.
"Leave before I punch you till you can't stand on your feets."
The word hits like a verdict, final and absolute.
Mark stands abruptly, tray in hand. His eyes flicker to me, softening with a flash of guilt. He says nothing and walks away.
I release a shaky breath, trying to calm my racing pulse.
Then....warmth.
A large hand covers mine, patting gently, carefully. Soothing, like taming a wounded animal.
My eyes lift. Aaron is looking at me, his fury gone, replaced with concern I don't want to acknowledge. His hand doesn't feel domineering.
Just steady. Safe.
"Thank you," I mouth, barely audible. My throat locks around the words.
"You don't have to…" He pauses, voice quieter now, guilt edging his tone, guilt he has no business feeling. "I should've been more careful. It won't happen again."
When his eyes meet mine, the certainty in them knocks the air from my lungs. A promise, unspoken, freely given.
My heart skips three beats. I almost smiled. Almost gave away another piece of myself.
But I don't.
I only nod, letting him keep patting my hand in that steady rhythm that calms my storm.
Even as my thoughts drag me back to screaming, accusations, words so sharp they still carve into my soul.
Even as I remember the scars I've carried, the wounds that never healed.
I shouldn't let him comfort me. I shouldn't.
But a small corner of me .....
the corner that's always been crying out for someone to see her without her begging for it ..... likes it.
She likes this warmth.
This worry.
This tenderness.
This feeling of being seen without asking.