Chapter 2 Dinner Is Served

‎Mark's POV

‎I told myself not to look back.

‎I made it as far as the hallway before I stopped, fingers tightening briefly around the folder in my hand. The house was quiet again, too quiet, the way it always was but something had shifted. A disturbance in the carefully controlled rhythm of my life.

‎Alex Smith.

‎Mary's son.

‎I hadn't planned to be home this early. My schedule rarely allowed it. But the board meeting had ended faster than expected, and instinct not logic had brought me back to the estate before sunset.

‎I hadn't expected him.

‎I closed the door to my study and leaned against it for a moment, exhaling slowly. The room smelled faintly of leather and cedar, familiar and grounding. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the back garden, but I didn't look outside. My thoughts were still in the kitchen.

‎The way he stood there comfortable, unafraid. The way he spoke without hesitation, sarcasm threaded through confidence. Most people either bowed or bristled when they met me. Alex did neither.

‎That alone should have been enough to unsettle me.

‎I pushed away from the door and crossed to my desk, setting the folder down without opening it. Work usually anchored me. Numbers. Strategy. Control.

‎None of it was working.

‎You're family. Of course it's okay.

‎I hadn't planned to say that either.

‎Mary had looked at me then surprised, touched, knowing. She'd been in my life long enough to recognize when I spoke from somewhere deeper than reason. She was the only person I allowed that closeness from. The only one who ever crossed the invisible line without consequence.

‎Until today.

‎I straightened my cuffs and forced my attention back to the documents in front of me. Alex was staying. Temporarily. That was all. A graduate finding his footing. Mary's son.

‎Nothing more.

‎The problem was, my mind refused to treat him like nothing.

‎---

‎Dinner came sooner than I expected.

‎I heard movement downstairs, soft footsteps, the clink of dishes. Familiar sounds. Comforting ones. I changed out of my work shirt and into something more casual, then paused.

‎Why?

‎I never changed for dinner.

‎Annoyed with myself, I went anyway.

‎The dining room was set neatly, warm light filling the space. Mary stood at the head of the table, adjusting a napkin. Alex was carrying dishes from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, expression relaxed.

‎He looked like he belonged.

‎The thought irritated me.

‎"You didn't have to help," Mary said when she noticed me.

‎"He offered," Alex replied easily. "I like knowing where things are."

‎I took my seat, watching him without meaning to. He moved with confidence, no hesitation, no awkwardness. Not like someone intimidated by wealth or space. He set a plate in front of me.

‎"I hope you're not picky," he said. "I might've tweaked Mum's recipe a little."

‎Mary shot him a warning look. "Alex."

‎I lifted my fork. "I trust your judgment."

‎His lips curved into a small, pleased smile. Not cocky. Just... warm.

‎The food was excellent. Better than usual, somehow. Rich, balanced, thoughtful.

‎"This is good," I said quietly.

‎Alex shrugged. "Told you. I don't poison people."

‎Mary laughed, clearly pleased. "He's always been like this. Cooking relaxes him."

‎I glanced at him. "What doesn't?"

‎He considered that. "Uncertainty."

‎The answer was honest. Too honest.

‎Something in my chest tightened.

‎---

‎Conversation flowed more easily than I expected. Alex spoke about university, about applying for jobs, about not wanting shortcuts. He spoke with conviction, but without arrogance. When I asked questions, he answered directly. When I pressed, he didn't fold.

‎He challenged me once politely, but firmly on a business decision he'd read about online. He wasn't wrong.

‎That earned my attention fully.

‎"You read financial reports for fun?" I asked.

He grinned. "I'm unemployed. I get bored."

‎Mary excused herself partway through the meal, claiming she needed to check on something in the kitchen. I knew that trick. She was giving us space.

‎The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.

‎"Why business?" I asked.

‎Alex met my gaze. He didn't look away. "Because I like understanding how things work. Systems. People. And because I don't want to depend on anyone else to survive."

‎I nodded slowly. "Independence matters to you."

‎"It has to," he said. "I don't want to owe my life to someone else's name."

‎The implication hung between us.

‎Yours.

‎I respected him for it. I hated that I did.

‎---

‎After dinner, he helped clear the table. I remained seated, watching him move through the room like he'd always been there. I shouldn't have noticed the way his smile softened when Mary praised him. Or the way his shoulders squared when he spoke about his plans.

‎I stood abruptly.

‎"I'll be working late," I said. "Don't wait up."

‎Alex looked at me, something curious flickering in his eyes. "You always work late?"

‎"Yes."

‎"That sounds exhausting."

‎"It's necessary."

‎"Maybe," he said. "Doesn't mean it's healthy."

‎I should've shut that down.

‎Instead, I found myself saying, "You're not wrong."

‎His eyebrows lifted slightly, clearly surprised.

‎So was I.

‎---

‎Later that night, I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down toward the ground floor. A faint light glowed beneath Alex's door.

‎He was awake.

‎The knowledge settled into me uncomfortably. I didn't know why I cared.

‎You shouldn't, I told myself.

‎He was Mary's son. He was living under my roof. There were boundaries, professional, personal, moral that existed for a reason.

‎I turned away and went to my room, closing the door firmly behind me.

‎But as I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, one thought refused to leave.

‎Alex Smith wasn't just passing through my life.

‎He had stepped into it.

‎And for the first time in three years, I wasn't sure I wanted the door closed.