A soft knock came at the study door.
"Young Master," the servant said quietly from outside, "President Zander is here."
Alastair's fingers paused mid-page. For a brief moment, his mind went blank. He hadn't expected Zander—not now, not after the silence. His first instinct was to refuse. His second was slower, heavier.
"…Let him in," he said at last.
Zander entered alone, the servants retreating immediately. He looked the same as always—composed, controlled—but his eyes changed the moment they landed on Alastair. Not surprise. Assessment.
"You've been unavailable," Zander said calmly.
"I was unwell," Alastair replied. Not a lie. Not the whole truth either.
The space between them felt too small, the air strangely tight. Zander caught it then—a faint trace, nearly gone, but unmistakable. His jaw tensed, Alpha instincts flaring before he suppressed them with effort.
"So that's it," Zander said quietly. "You didn't disappear without reason."
Alastair stiffened. "You didn't ask."
Silence followed. Heavy. Loaded.
Zander took a step closer, then stopped himself. "I didn't know if you wanted me to."
The words landed harder than Alastair expected. He looked away, fingers curling slightly. His body still remembered too much—heat, longing, the absence that followed.
"I'm fine now," Alastair said.
Zander studied him for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. But he didn't press. He never did. That restraint—the choice to step back—made something ache in Alastair's chest.
"I won't stay," Zander said at last. "I just needed to see you."
He turned to leave, pausing briefly at the door.
"If you decide you want to talk," he added, voice low, "I'll answer."
When the door closed, Alastair exhaled slowly.
Nothing had been said.
And yet… nothing felt the same anymore.