He was not fighting against a panic attack.

He was absolutely not attracted to Tristan.

Myrick continued to repeat those words to himself as he went about his business for the next few hours. There were only a few meetings dotting the time he had left in the office for the day, none of which lasted longer than fifteen minutes or so, though the subjects of those meetings were so mundane, the meetings so unnecessary that the hours seemed to tick by with an almost painful sluggishness that left him antsy and eager for the day to just be done. It wasn’t even that he was looking forward to having dinner with Tristan—the very thought of going to a social outing with someone where it was just the two of them, and it wasn’t Isabelle, made his stomach knot itself with anxiety and stress—but ultimately he just wanted the work part of his day to be finished so that he was one step closer to going home, curling up in his bed, and falling into a blissfully deep sleep.

Two and a half hours after he stepped into Tristan’s office he found himself staring at his reflection in the mirror, sequestered in the bathroom attached to his office, trying to find what flaws in his appearance he could find, and smooth them away now while he still had the chance. It was silly and he knew it—he had already groomed himself sufficiently for work, and all this was, was Tristan inviting a colleague out for dinner to get to know who he was working with. It wasn’t anything else, and yet, when he thought of the Alpha seeing him outside of work, where the power dynamics of his position didn’t matter, it made him want to do his utmost to ensure that he wouldn't be seen as unkempt. Even if that meant finding himself staring at his reflection until he inadvertently memorized every minute detail of his face.

It was ridiculous, this need to perfect his appearance for Tristan, and Myrick knew that, even as he fussed over his reflection. It was ridiculous because he wasn’t presenting himself to Tristan—he wasn’t offering himself for courtship, and he didn’t want to offer himself for that in the first place, but there was still the societal fear of an Omega not putting their best image forward being considered someone who wasted all of society’s effort on them; the grooming, the education, the benefits, all came with expectation of being at their best, at their freshest, at all times when they were out and about. Myrick knew that Tristan would likely not care outside of work, especially not at the end of a work day, but the societal conditioning that had been proverbially beaten into him over the years won out. And so, here he was, preening in front of a mirror despite not even wanting to.

Still, he thought as he smoothed his hair out for the umpteenth time and gave up on trying to get that one little cowlick of hair to do anything but stick straight up in the back of his head, at least the restaurant had alcoholic beverages—a cocktail would go a long way to loosening his nerves. More than once, he had pondered coming up with an excuse to Tristan so that they could perhaps do it another day (or never, but he managed to keep that particularly ridiculous part down), but he knew he had no real reason to not to go and get to know his new vice president; all he would be doing if he went straight home was showering, crawling into bed, and falling asleep. Perhaps he would choose to read a book, if he were feeling particularly adventurous.

Going out would be better, nerves be damned, he decided.

Despite the panic that gnawed at his gut, when Tristan sent him a text message letting him know that he was calling it a night and confirming that he was still interested in going out for dinner with him, he sent back a reply that he was on his way to meet him at the elevator. He was sweating—was it nerves? Was he just warm? He’d been feeling warmer than usual lately, and he faintly wondered if he was coming down with something. To say he hadn’t been feeling like himself in the past couple of weeks would be an understatement. Still, he removed his suit jacket, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the hall, not even remotely surprised Tristan was already there, his own jacket draped over one of his massive arms.

Even wearing the rest of his suit Tristan looked like the picture of relaxed, with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first couple of buttons undone, giving Myrick more of a view than he had been anticipating of the man’s muscular physique, the bit of deep olive skin that was showing strangely tantalizing, and even for someone as romantically and socially inept as Myrick, he had to admit that the presence that this Alpha exuded was striking.

“I'll be honest here and admit that I wasn't entirely certain you would actually take me up on my offer of dinner.” Tristan noted in an almost ashamed tone as he reached over and pushed the button to summon the elevator. He leaned his shoulder against the wall beside the elevator, regarding his boss with what Myrick was realizing was his signature smile. It was a faint, easy curve of the corner of his mouth, not quite wide enough to be a smirk and while clearly a more reserved kind of smile, still felt soft and approachable. “I worried that it might come across as pushy. Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Nonsense,” Myrick managed to lie easily enough about his nerves; it wasn’t Tristan’s fault that he was the way he was, and he wasn’t going to make the man feel bad about something he had no part in creating. “This is hardly going to be the first time I enjoy a dinner with a colleague outside of work, especially in my time with this company.” He didn’t add this would be the first time that it would be only the two of them, though he knew this would be different; he’d be going in his own car, the setting would be public, and he would have total control of when he left. He was fine, and he had to remind himself of that.

“Yeah, you’ve been here longer than I have, right?” The elevator let out its usual ding, and they stepped in when the doors parted. “Is it by much? I’ve been trying to sorta map out when people started working here.”

“November will make my eighth year here.” Saying it out loud made him feel simultaneously proud and strangely old for a man scarcely in his thirties. “Feels like I’ve been here longer—I’ve seen a lot of people shuffle through the door over the years.”

“Do people leave here frequently?” Tristan’s brow furrowed in thought. “I mostly just focused on the marketing team, so I never really paid attention.”

“It's less that they come and go from the company itself and more that they just get shuffled around the building or get moved to a different building altogether.” He shrugged as the elevator doors opened and they stepped out into the parking garage. “This is the main building of the company, but there are other smaller ones in neighboring cities. It’s all a bit scattered.”

“I got that vibe.” Tristan nodded. “It seems like organizing it all would take a lot of energy.”

“A lot more than it should, to be frank.” Myrick nodded as they walked down the aisle of parked cars. “We used to be in one building before the company expanded. Now we’re a little all over the place, and there’s a lot of reorganizing that we need to do.” He shrugged. “It’s something we’re trying to work on. It wouldn’t be realistic to try and merge everyone under one roof again, but if we could have all the buildings closer together, it’d go a long way for getting our ducks in a row.” He stopped at his car, his keys fished out of his pocket. “You seem a friendly conversationalist.” He hovered by the door to his car. He hoped that didn’t sound like some backhanded barb; he’d meant it as a compliment, truly.

“I certainly try to be,” Tristan laughed, fumbling with his own car keys. “You got the address for the place? It’s just down the street, but still.” Myrick nodded. “Glad to hear it. I’ll meet you over there, then, and who knows?” He flashed a toothy grin. “Maybe I can keep showing off my conversational skills.”

They shared a chuckle as Myrick stepped into his car and pulled up the restaurant’s address. He gave himself a few moments to breathe, to remind himself that this was happening, and he was going out to dinner (not as a date, never as a date) with his new vice president with no one else to act as a buffer between them.

His stomach clenched tight enough to cause pain.

Then he was dialing Isabelle, because he really didn’t know who else he could turn to for this, and he didn’t want to bail on it now, even if he was feeling strangely warm and the thought of being alone, even in public, with someone else was enough to make him feel nauseated. He gripped his steering wheel tighter with his free hand as he heard the call being answered on the other end.

“Myrick?” He let out a shaky sigh when he heard her familiar voice on the other end of the line. His grip on the steering wheel loosened, if only marginally.

“I think I’m panicking.”

“You mean, probably,” she said, and he could see her nodding in his mind’s eye with a wry grin on her face. It was the same look she would get when she knew she was going to have to talk him into believing things he already knew; mainly that he was going to be okay. “But tell me about it anyway, just in case.”

“It’s about Tristan—”

“Is he not working out?” He knew her well enough to pick up on the tinge of concern in her voice.

“No, no,” he realized how that must sound, and opted for a different response. “He’s been settling in well, but he wants me to go to dinner with him!”

“Not even out of his first official week, and he’s already wanting to take you on a date?” She clucked her tongue. “I expected more out of him.”

“It—” He realized he had raised his voice, so cut himself off with a wince and tried again with a softer tone, “It isn’t a date—he wants us to get to know one another so we can work better together.”

“I mean, I can’t say I haven’t done that with some of my coworkers.” She sounded thoughtful, if distantly so, like she was mulling it over in her head to divine her successor’s intent. “Hell, we did that.” He recalled, though it had still been with two other people even then. “If that’s all he wants, what’s the harm?”

“There isn’t any, I know that,” he swallowed. “But it’ll just be the two of us.”

“And you’re worried something will happen.”

“I’m always worried something will happen, Isabelle.”

“Just remember you said that, not me.” She snorted a laugh. “Still, I wouldn’t worry about it—if nothing else, think of the fact that he just got this job and doesn’t have tenure over you—he literally can’t afford a scandal of any kind.”

He’d been so focused on what could happen to him, he hadn’t taken time to wonder what Tristan would have to lose in things going sour for him, and felt a little stupid for not considering it. “I hadn’t thought about that, to be honest.”

“Help you feel at least a little better?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think I got this.” It was only slightly better, and he was still nervous, but he felt the muscles in his stomach slacken, ever so slightly. Enough that he could turn the key in the ignition and fasten his seatbelt. “Okay, I got this.”

“You got this.” Isabelle confirmed, laughing softly. “I’ll let you get to that then, but if you feel uncomfortable and you need to get out, call me, and I’ll make sure to give you a solid reason to have to leave, all right?”

“You’re the best Isabelle,” he sighed. “Are you sure I couldn’t persuade you to come out of—”

“I’m not coming back to work, Myrick.” Her tone was flat but had a hint of her hiding a smile behind it. He sighed.

“I can try.” They said their goodbyes, and he took a deep breath before pulling his car out of the parking spot and going on his way, heading out of the garage and toward his destination. The drive was short—shorter than he anticipated even with looking up where it was beforehand, but thankfully the place didn’t look overly crowded. Once he’d managed to find a spot to park his car, he took one last bracing breath, and stepped out ready to face his fate for the evening.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten lost!” Tristan greeted him as he neared, leaning against the wall beside the main entrance to the establishment.

“Nah, got a call from a relative,” he let the lie slip out easily enough. He supposed it was more of a half truth these days, though it was all semantics at this point anyhow.

“Ahh, those are always a pain to get off the phone once they start,” Tristan held the door open for him as they stepped inside. “No emergencies, I hope?”

“Thankfully, no, just asking about holiday plans.” He sighed and shook his head. “I don’t even know what mine are at this point. Too far out to plan around business.” Myrick managed to refrain from wincing at the lie; while Tristan didn’t need to know that he had to be talked down from his panic, it didn’t stop Myrick from feeling at least a pang of guilt. They were shown to a table, and they took their seats.

“Almost impossible to plan further ahead than a month or so.” Tristan nodded. “Even then, things are always up in the air.” He thanked the waitress when she handed them their menus. “Ahh, no talking about business right now—we’re off the clock!”

“We’re salary,” Myrick said flatly. “We’re never off the clock.”

“All right, fair enough—we’re out of the office, then.”

“Better.” Myrick gave a nod, smiling in spite of his nerves. “If you don’t mind my asking, though, before we step off the topic of work for the evening,” he leaned back in his chair, curious. “What made you want to transfer out of the marketing team? Apart from wanting a different position, I mean.”

Tristan tilted his head, considering the question. “As much as I led the team, it didn’t really feel like I connected with them on a personal level.” He shrugged a shoulder. “My colleagues were all nice to talk to, don't misunderstand, but none of them were really interested in coexisting as a team instead of a bunch of coworkers that happened to have similar jobs.” He crossed his arms, mulling over his words. “That’s probably not a great description—they weren’t bad people or anything, but in the years I spent on that team, I only had a handful of conversations that didn’t involve a project we were working on.” He grimaced. “I admire focus and dedication, but no one on the team was ever interested in just…I dunno, shooting the shit during downtime. Didn’t want to talk about a book they just read, or a movie that came out, or even what things interested them outside of work. As successful as we were, I felt isolated.”

He smiled wryly at Myrick. “You’re at least willing to indulge me every so often.” He sighed as he opened the menu. “At the end of the day, we’re all different forms of pencil pushers—I'll bet money we’re all nerds about something or other, but now it’s like a good chunk of us don't know how to work around that and just talk about what makes us happy. Like we’re afraid of being mocked for it.” He spared a glance at Myrick from over the top of his menu. “I'll admit, I was like that for a long time when I was younger. Too long.” He set the menu down on the table, still open, and let out a sigh. “I just...I just want to be happy now, y'know? And I want to make others happy. We just,” he shook his head. “We just make ourselves too lonely these days.”

“I can't rightly argue that point.” Myrick had to fight against the desire to clutch at his chest, the sentiment hitting him a little too close to home, close enough that his heart ached with the weight of it. It was baffling—they hadn’t even ordered their drinks yet, and here he was, feeling like he’d been emotionally called out inadvertently by a man who, while a colleague, was nearly a perfect stranger to him.

“Still,” Tristan continued, his expression lighter and his tone brighter. “It’s good that we can take the opportunity to get to know one another!”

“What,” Myrick swallowed, “what do we even talk about?”

“Anything!” Tristan grinned. “Whatever we want to talk about.”

And so they did—after they ordered their drinks and the waiter let them be again.

“Do you like to read in your spare time?” Tristan began, leaning back in his seat comfortably.

“When I actually have spare time, sure!” Myrick laughed, feeling just a touch less pressured to put on a face in the wake of Tristan’s easy composure. “I’ve been mostly reading fantasy books—they’re a good escape for me.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Sometimes it’s good to just, I dunno, get away from whatever’s bugging me, y’know?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Tristan flashed him a toothy grin. “I like fantasy books, but I usually default to a good mystery novel when the urge strikes me.” Myrick blinked in surprise—he hadn’t pegged Tristan for a mystery novel kind of guy, though now that he had thought on it, he couldn’t rightly pin down what he had thought Tristan read. “But it’s kinda for the same reasons as you—I just get sucked into them, like I have to completely immerse myself in this fictional case and try to solve it before the detectives can.” Tristan’s eyes flashed excitedly, and Myrick could see how much Tristan enjoyed them from the way he gestured with his hands.

“Have you? Solved the case before the protagonists, I mean.” Myrick tilted his head. Now that he knew Tristan liked mysteries, it wouldn’t surprise him at all to find out that he was good at solving them—Tristan was a rather clever man, after all.

“A few times,” Tristan shrugged with a soft grin. “I don’t really keep track, though. I mostly just wind up wanting to know what happens next and getting all caught up in the plot.”

“I could see that.” Myrick found himself nodding. “Any particular ones that you’ve read that stand out?”

“Rogue Lawyer has been hard to put down lately,” Tristan admitted, tapping his chin as he thought. “There’s a few others that I’ve liked, but that one is utterly fascinating.”

“Oh?” Myrick quirked a brow in interest.

“It’s about this lawyer that’s managed to piss off almost everyone he comes across because he takes defense cases that most people wouldn’t find defendable.” He leaned forward in his seat and rested his arms comfortably on the table. “Like he takes cases with an almost ironclad case against them, but he abuses the loopholes in the legal system to win his cases. He’s so hated he has to work out of a bulletproof van!”

“That’s…wow,” Myrick breathed. “That’s no way to live.” His response was soft, at a loss but infinitely intrigued by the book. He made a mental note to check it out at some point later.

“Yeah,” Tristan agreed with an emphatic nod. “I haven’t gotten to the end yet, but it’s probably my favorite read this year so far, hands down.” He glanced over, as if he were searching for the waitress, though his focus quickly returned to Myrick. “I like a lot of other genres, too, though I tend to stick with mystery novels.” He shrugged almost sheepishly. “It probably sounds a little weird to say that mystery books are my ‘cozy winding down for the day’ kind of book, but I think they help me to take my mind off of things that stress me out.”

“No, no, I get that!” Myrick said, eyes wide in excitement. “That’s why I read the books I do—it helps me relax!” He felt himself smiling—smiling wider than he had in a long time. He felt like he was beginning to get comfortable, and that surprised him—he barely knew Tristan, even less outside of the workplace, and yet, Tristan was so open and easygoing that he wound up loosening up without having to try. Myrick found himself nodding along as Tristan listed a few more books he was reading, glad that Tristan was able to give him recommendations that he hadn’t read yet. “I’m gonna be honest, though,” his lips twitched in the ghost of a snarky grin that he tried to hold back. “Mystery novels don’t really seem like they would go particularly well with metal or rock music.”

“You would think!” Tristan didn’t miss a beat, beaming from ear to ear. “But it works astonishingly well!” He let out a chuckle. “Sometimes hearing a heavy metal cover of a pop song is the perfect music for a tense scene.” Myrick let out a laugh, though he had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep it quiet—they were in public, after all.

“So you like metal covers the most?” Myrick asked when his chuckling had quieted.

“They’re not my most favorite.” Tristan shook his head. “But I enjoy hearing them—it’s a nice way to enjoy an old song like it’s new again.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “But my favorite song is probably ‘Dead Skin Mask’ by Slayer.” Tristan’s smile turned boyish as he mocked strumming the air as though it were a guitar. “I’m a sucker for power chords and heavy electric guitar.”

Laughter bubbled up in Myrick’s throat, oddly tickled at seeing this burly, muscular man in a business suit leaning in his chair and playing an air guitar. “I’m not sure if I like metal or not,” Myrick admitted once his laughter fizzled out. “I haven’t really listened to a whole lot of it.”

“Ah, that’s such a shame!” Tristan clutched at his chest in mock horror. “I’ll have to send you a playlist sometime—you don’t have to like metal, but you should at least try it!”

Myrick’s heart fluttered at the thought before he had to firmly remind himself that it had nothing to do with romantic intent—they were colleagues sharing their interests, nothing more.

From there, they started talking about other topics—more music they listened to, movies they’ve watched, anything that came to mind.

It was...safe, but Myrick wasn’t complaining; when he’d been psyching himself up for something that would be emotionally exhausting and uncomfortable, he was more than fine with safe, with nothing more notable happening than him learning about Tristan’s favorite band. If the worst thing that this night would be was pleasantly boring, he would be more than happy with that.

He could work with pleasantly boring.

“I have to admit, it’s good to see you out of the office, boss man!” Tristan laughed heartily. “Though I can't say I'm terribly surprised that you only barely loosen up when it comes to your taste in books.” He grinned playfully. Myrick pursed his lips, debating if it was still too early in their working relationship to reach across the table and swat him on the arm.

“Good to see you're already taking every opportunity to make light of my even-headedness and professionalism, even off the clock.”

“I thought we’re never off the clock, boss.” Myrick grinned wryly at Tristan’s haughty expression.

“Now I know I’m gonna need a drink for dinner with you.” Tristan managed to hand him the alcoholic beverage menu before they both broke down and shared a good-natured laugh. They both looked it over as the waitress came back to check on them.

“Ah, we actually haven’t looked much at the menu, sorry,” Myrick said sheepishly. “But we’d like to order other beverages, if that’s alright?” The waitress nodded, writing pad at the ready. “A Moscow mule, if you please.” He rested his hands on the smooth wood of the table, a pleasant smile on his face. “And a blackberry iced tea as well, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course!” The waitress smiled brightly, jotting down the drink order as she turned to face Tristan. “And for you, sir?”

“A beer on tap for me, preferably a lager, if you've got one.” Tristan said, looking up from the menu.

“We have a few to choose from,” the waitress smiled and opened the menu to a different section for him. “Take a look over them, when you're ready, just flag me over, and I'll get you taken care of.”

“Sounds like a plan to me, miss. Could I get a Coke, too, please?” Tristan said as he began to read the section she had shown him. She nodded and went off to get Myrick’s drink started at the bar. Just as well, as it gave Tristan more than ample time to pour over the lager section of the menu he hadn’t seen before. He made a thoughtful hum, one that Myrick heard rumble in his chest as he tapped his chin in thought.

“Torn between a few choices?” he asked Tristan after a moment of watching him. Tristan tilted his head, eyes never leaving the menu.

“Unsure of where to start, more like it, but you’re not wrong.” He looked as though he wasn't used to there being so many options for lager, and Myrick couldn’t blame him. Typically, the places he went to only had one or two options for him to pick from, especially a place like an Asian fusion restaurant. “Hmm. Think I'll just try...this one.” He tapped his finger at one specific lager's name, a harvest spice lager that must have struck him as potentially interesting. When the waitress returned with Myrick's drink, he ordered his, and seemed to be glad to receive it cold and frothing. “Now then, what are we thinking for food? Something hot? Something light?” He tilted his head again. “You had a craving for udon, right?”

“I’m genuinely surprised you remembered, honestly,” Myrick shrugged. “Though at this point I’ll settle for anything; I’ve been regretting not taking a lunch today.” He laughed and flipped the menu closed.

Tristan let out another thoughtful hum as he flipped through the menu. “I’m wondering what’ll have the most food…”

Myrick couldn’t stop the laugh bubbling in his throat from spilling out. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I promise!” Myrick scrambled to explain between laughter. “It’s just…I dunno. I imagine it takes a lot of food to keep you going.”

“I can’t rightly argue against that,” Tristan said around a chuckle. “I don’t know if it’s apparent, but I do work out quite a bit.”

“Really!” Myrick gasped, clutching at his chest in mock surprise. “I had no idea!”

“I know, I’ve done really well hiding it,” Tristan snickered. “That, and I just sorta run hot by default, so I just...burn a lot of calories.” He shrugged. “Feels like I’m always hungry.”

“If it helps, soup bowls are usually a large amount of food.” Myrick offered, and Tristan flipped over to the soups available. “I like ordering them, even though I barely finish mine.”

“Maybe that’s the ticket, then!” Tristan said, nodding his head.

Their choices settled as their chuckles had, Myrick took Tristan’s menu, placing it atop his and setting them off to the side. The waitress noticed this, and came back to take their orders. With nothing left to do but enjoy their drinks and wait, they settled into their seats and sipped, smiling pleasantly at the warmth that crawled down and settled into their chests. Myrick sipped at the blackberry tea he’d ordered alongside his Moscow mule, not wanting to actually get any kind of buzz from the alcohol, opting to just let the warmth of the alcohol loosen the tension in his muscles.

“I hope the rest of your work day went all right? No stressful meetings or anything like that?” Tristan ventured conversationally. Myrick smirked over the rim of his copper mug as he took a deep pull from his mule. He liked this casual conversation, this easy back and forth with nothing heavy between them. He could just…breathe, and he wasn’t used to that. It was making him feel a little warm—or maybe that was the huge gulp of liquor he just took? He was never good with any kind of alcohol tolerance.

“Easy enough, thankfully. There were a few stumbling blocks with some of the teams and their execution, but it’s good that I can rely on them to get their jobs done. Even if they struggle here or there, they understand what is expected of them and know what they have to do to get it done.” He grimaced and set his glass down. “There was this one meeting I had, though, that I swear the client, he just doesn’t give a shit about the wellbeing of any of the workers and just wants shit to get done no matter the cost.” He shook his head. “Makes no sense to me; you're wanting to be a long-term client, but you’re not going to at least try to pretend to give a shit about my employees? That they are providing you a service?” Myrick shook his head around another drink of his mule. “I’ve never understood that mentality.”

“There are some like that, yeah.” Not many, but enough that it made their business transactions and negotiations that much more unnecessarily hellish, they both knew. “I just try to give them the marketing spin to get what I know my team’s gonna need out of the deal, though that only works so many times on so many people.”

“What about you? How was the rest of your day after I left your office?” Myrick took a drink of his tea, realizing that his face was feeling too flushed to just be nerves; he had to slow down, or he’d have to leave his car.

Tristan shrugged. “Uneventful, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.” Picking up his beer, he took a pull from the glass and hummed, pleased to find it cold and pleasantly flavored. “Finished up the offer for the on call employees who would be able to shift positions. Even got a few responses and forwarded them to human resources to schedule interviews. There was one particular employee that kept trying to interview today with me, but I had to tell him—multiple times—that interviews weren’t set in stone yet.” There was an errant twitch of his lip, giving away his displeasure.

“How well did that go over?” Myrick said knowingly; he valued all of his employees, though there were more than a few of the ones on call that had simply worked remotely for long enough that they forgot how to talk in a business setting; it’s hard to separate work and home when you work from home, after all.

“For the most part, fine, but that one guy,” he shook his head and tipped the glass back a bit further. “He should consider himself lucky I’m not the one interviewing him. If he were on my team, I’d have wrung his neck for trying to strong arm anyone into interviewing before they were ready, like they were owed it.” He reached for a napkin and wiped at the foam that caught on his upper lip.

“You mentioned when I interviewed you that you liked to lead your team fairly but firmly,” Myrick noted with another drink of his tea. “I've been wondering what you meant by that, but I didn't really know how to approach the subject without sounding condescending about it or like I’d judge you for the answer,” he admitted quietly around another mouthful of his drink, sheepish at bringing it up at all. Their soups were delivered to them—tempura udon for Myrick, beef ramen for Tristan, and Tristan picked up his chopsticks, licking his lips hungrily as he eyed his food like a hunter eyes its prey. “I admit to being curious as to how you lead things, though. I’m hardly a newly minted CEO, but I’m not too proud to admit that I’m still learning. I just…I didn’t want you to think I assumed that you were some bully strong-arming your team or anything like that.”

“There have been stretches where most days, it was damn hard not to feel that way about it, honestly,” Tristan said, his sour tone muffled around the mouthful of noodles he was working on. He finished off his beer and ordered another as the waitress walked past before he elaborated. “None of the projects we got were too challenging, but we would have to fight creative burnout within the team, more often than not.”

“I don't follow.” Myrick frowned, but genuinely hoped that he didn't sound like he was judging, merely processing and asking for more information to do so. Information that it seemed he was more than willing to provide, once he’d indulged in another large mouthful of broth and beef.

“It's like this,” He placed his hands on the table, on either side of his massive bowl of ramen. “As an example, take one of my old teammates, Jennifer,” Tristan started, taking a drink of his Coke. “She's a brilliant marketing strategist, never misses a deadline, and I've seen her notes when we hold meetings about projects we’re working on; she nearly writes down everything that’s discussed, and more often than not we had to use them to rely on what went down at the meetings. She's thorough, meticulous, and manages to get damn near everything the client wants on paper exactly how they want it.”

“Jennifer Hanes?” Myrick asked around a bite of tempura shrimp. Tristan confirmed with a nod of his head as he chewed thoughtfully on a bit of vegetables and noodles, managing to swallow it quick enough to thank the waitress for giving them a refill on their non alcoholic beverages as she passed. “She’s been with the company about a year or so—by all accounts, she’s a model employee.”

Tristan gave an affirming noise. “She has been the whole time she was on my team. There's just one problem,” he sighed and sipped at the new drink he was given. “She struggles with putting her own thoughts to paper and coming up with ideas confidently enough on her own to not need validation from others.”

“What do you mean?” Myrick tilted his head, curious about the twist in the tale. “She couldn’t come up with ideas on her own?”

“She had the opposite problem,” Tristan shook his head. “Whenever I assigned her a solo project, she’d come up with too many ideas and wind up unable to work out which ones were viable for the project. Or worse, she would have a solid idea, but not feel confident enough to move forward with it because she feared that the company would suffer for it. I've observed her in discussions in the meetings about the direction of different projects and how best to proceed with them, and nearly every time, she’s got some damn good ideas we wind up using, if not in that specific marketing bit, then usually in one down the road.” He sighed. “But if I were to hand her a project and ask her to have it done by a specific deadline, she completely freezes. She's able to collaborate with her colleagues on any project, no matter how difficult it is, but the moment she has to rely on her own judgement, she doesn’t trust it.”

“Then why have her work on solo projects at all?” Myrick felt a peculiar spike of defensiveness on behalf of his employee as he drained his Moscow mule—was this hitting a nerve that he wasn’t used to being struck, he wondered, and marveled at the fact that he didn’t have an immediate answer for that question. “Why not just have her work on team projects?”

“I mean, sure, that’d probably be the path of least resistance for all parties involved, and I can’t lie and say I’ve never thought about doing just that because it was easier.” Tristan shrugged as he took another drink, polishing off his beer. “But I run into a few problems with that option because there are other members of the team for which the opposite is true, where they can always consistently work on solo projects all the livelong day for me and never miss a deadline, but the moment they have to work with someone else, or the rest of the team, they lose their voice and don’t know what to contribute. And sure, I could just have everyone work with what they’re good at, but that completely divides the team until there isn’t a team, just a bunch of people that happen to have comparable job titles. No one learns, no one grows, and we stagnate.” He grimaced. “Stagnation is bad—for the market, but for people even more so.”

Myrick wanted to add to the conversation, truly he did, but his throat felt tight, and he didn’t know what to say that didn’t just sound like some weird personal defense of something that wasn’t even aimed at him in the first place. Why was he so affected by this? He’d asked about Tristan’s leadership. Finding words had fled him, he sipped at his tea to hide that he didn’t know what to say or what to feel.

“So, yeah,” Tristan continued, “there’d be times where I would have to more or less order people around and push them to do things that made them work out of spaces they were comfortable with. I didn’t like it, neither did they, but everyone benefited from it, and usually, that was all it would take for them to start to do it on their own.” Myrick sipped at his broth and quietly slurped some more noodles in favor of just gawking at the man. “For some, the barrier, or at least the biggest one of them, is anxiety; they're being made to work in a space that’s out of their comfort zone, and that just sorta instinctively unnerves us, right? Being out of that zone is never an easy feeling to reconcile.” He took a drink of his Coke pensively. “Even helps me; I’m not comfortable with being forceful, though sometimes you need to have a heavier hand to get something done. It’s a lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way.”

“That's...wow. I hadn't realized,” Myrick admitted once he’d actually swallowed the mouthful of noodles and vegetables he’d been chewing on in lieu of being able to nibble on Tristan’s words in a physical sense. “I never thought of it that way, but that’s probably just because of the type of teaching and bosses that I've had myself.” He drained his tea and ordered another. “I either had pretty decent bosses that sorta took the befriending approach, or I had complete hardasses that were only interested in results and didn’t care about how they made their employees feel. I had never believed that there was much of a gray area between those two extremes, but then, I suppose a part of me did kinda hope that there was, you know? That middle ground.” Tristan nodded as he took another large slurp of his ramen. “I never led with much of a heavy hand for anything, even when there was a crunch time before a due date, maybe for that same reason—that I was afraid that I was going to upset my employees in some way.”

“Oh, they no doubt get upset, at least a little, don't get me wrong,” Tristan said once he'd swallowed the mouthful he had been chewing on. “But they still learn from it, even if they get upset. Because they want to do their best—they want to try. I would rather they grow and accomplish what they were setting out to do in spite of a little upset, rather than try to spare their feelings and watch them fail—within reason, of course.” Tristan grew quiet, opting to focus on his food, and Myrick felt a fissure of panic hit him—the last thing he wanted to do was make his vice president feel like he was judging him or assuming anything of him and his methods of leadership.

“Thanks for sharing that with me,” Myrick said, his voice earnest. “It’s always good to get other perspectives on stuff.” Tristan looked up, mouth stuffed with food mid-slurp, and Myrick snorted a chuckle. “Anyhow, I can't believe it's me that's saying it, but,” he grinned, “how about we talk about something other than work?”

“The fuddy duddy wants to talk about extra curricular activities? Outside of work-related issues?” Tristan threw a hand over his forehead dramatically. “Color me surprised!”

“Oh hush, you.” Myrick laughed in spite of himself. “Though I think you'll find that my interests outside of work are alarmingly fuddy duddy-esque as well.”

“I already found that out when we started talking about books we’ve read, but that’s okay, I promise! It suits you.” Tristan snickered. “It adds to your simplistic charm.”

“I'll show you my, 'simplistic charm,' if you keep that talk up, Mister Chefant.” They shared a laugh, but ultimately all talk of work was promptly forgotten in favor of just talking about themselves. Maybe it was the liquor in him but this time, personal talk just sort of came…easier, like he didn’t have to dig to find something that he was comfortable with divulging. Perhaps a better understanding would lead to them actually growing closer like Tristan had mentioned earlier. Some part of him hoped so, as much as he tried to deny it. “Really, though—you’ve been so easy going about all of this.” Myrick shifted in his seat, making an effort to make his shoulders go lax as he leaned into his chair. “It’s only fair that I loosen up.”

“If you like.” Tristan said with a grin, but Myrick noticed that it was soft, and his eyes were strangely gentle in a way Myrick couldn’t describe.

“Yeah,” Myrick said, feeling his face grow hot. “I just don’t know what to talk about.”

“Anything you like!” Tristan encouraged. “What else do you do with your spare time besides books?”

Myrick thought of all the figurines and miniature sets that he had painstakingly, lovingly spent hours of his life building and felt his face grow warm. “I, ah,” Myrick stammered, reminding himself to relax. “I like building models of figurines and buildings.” He sucked in a breath and held it as he waited for the laugh he was absolutely sure was coming.

“Oh, are they from shows you watch or something?” Tristan asked, tilting his head to the side. His tone was inquisitive, not judgmental, and it helped unfurl the tangle of nerves in Myrick’s stomach, just enough that he remembered how to breathe again.

“Some of them, yeah,” Myrick said, perking up at the question. Asking a question like that meant that Tristan was far less likely to mock him for it, and he found himself more open to talking in detail about it. “A lot of them are like mech suits from an old show from when I was a teenager, actually.” He let out a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle.

“Like Gundams?” Tristan asked with wide eyes.

“They are Gundams!” Myrick said, his nerves fleeing in light of someone having the same interest as him—the thought occurred to him that he hadn’t really been able to sit down and just talk about his passion with someone in a long, long time. “Or, at least, quite a few of them are.”

“Nice!” Tristan beamed. “I used to build them when I was a teenager!”

“Wait, seriously?” Myrick gasped. That someone else would build these models wasn’t surprising—the show was incredibly popular—but the idea of not only someone that he was conversing in a friendly setting with, but his own vice president actually knew of the show—and actually built the models at one point? He had never thought he’d live to see the day.

“Hell, yeah!” Tristan said, his grin widening. “I still keep up with the show, I just can’t build the models anymore—my hands aren’t as steady as they used to be.” Tristan’s smile grew tinged with a touch of sadness.

“What do you mean?” Myrick asked.

Tristan took another drink of his Coke, his eyes downcast. “It’s nothing that’ll affect me overly much, no worries there.” Tristan looked back up at Myrick as he set his drink down and waved his hand dismissively. “My hands just have a shake to them—it’s just enough of a tremor that I can’t really hold precision tools steady anymore.” He shrugged. “It’s all right, though—there’s actually types of models that can be built without tools and glue and stuff like that.” Myrick’s interest was piqued—he’d only known about the models with smaller parts that required the utmost of precision in their construction.

“They make models with that kind of quality that don’t need tools and stuff?” Myrick asked, his whole attention focused on Tristan.

“Absolutely, and I think that’s a great thing!” Tristan confirmed with a nod of his head. “I think it’s really important that people with all kinds of disabilities, however minor they may be, still have access to hobbies and things that they can still enjoy,” his eyes softened as he swirled some of his noodles around with is chopsticks. “I’m just…I’m just really glad that there are companies that see that and are starting to make things that keep people’s hobbies accessible to them, even if they have something holding them back.”

“You seem really passionate about this.” Myrick said, his own voice growing quiet.

“It’s important for everyone.” Tristan said with a nod. “But it hits a little close to home for me.” He shrugged a shoulder. “My mom—she’s the one that got me interested in building things, right? Working with my hands and all that.” He said slowly, as if he were working through the words. Myrick nodded to show he was listening, even if he didn’t know what to say in response. “She was a carpenter—used to build my furniture when I was a kid, even!” Tristan’s eyes sparked with nostalgia, though the corners of his smile were weighed down by sadness. “As I got older, though, her hands started to shake. It wasn’t so bad at first, but then it just kept getting worse.” He sighed. “She has Parkinson’s disease, and it’s gotten bad enough now that she can barely even talk.” Myrick’s heart broke as he watched the man stretch his smile wider to hide his pain. “But I still like making models of things and showing them to her. Her illness has progressed too far to be able to work with building things, but if she’d had the kinds of models I have now…” he swallowed thickly. “Maybe she could have worked on the things that made her happy for longer, you know?”

“I’m sorry—this must be really hard for you.” Myrick said, and before he could think twice about it, he reached across the table and grasped at Tristan’s hand. The motion seemed to shock both of the men, and for a moment, Myrick thought to pull away, but one look at Tristan’s face made him swallow his nerves and squeeze his hand. He’d seen that look in the mirror most mornings when he got out of bed, the mask that Tristan was trying to fix over his face slipping just a little, just enough that Myrick could see his grief. Myrick felt a sudden wave of solidarity between the two of them, and felt…alarmingly close to Tristan. Closer than he had felt to someone in years, and it made his heart flutter in his chest.

“Thank you.” Tristan said softly, earnestly, and there was something warm and unspokenly intimate in his gaze as he squeezed Myrick’s hand. “That means a lot.” Time stood still in that moment for longer than Myrick could pass as friendly before he suddenly remembered that they were in the middle of a fairly crowded restaurant and this was strange behavior for two colleagues, though he squeezed Tristan’s hand back for a moment before easing himself away and leaning back. “Anyway,” Tristan said as he cleared his throat, his tone much brighter. Somehow, Myrick could tell that his cheerfulness wasn’t forced. “You didn’t tell me what models of Gundams you build!”

“You’re right!” Myrick picked up on the chance to change the topic, or at least, drift away from the somber mood, and readily took it even as his heart melted at Tristan and his softness, if only just a little.

They shared their love of building miniatures and compared which kinds of models they had built and how long they had been doing it, fascinated by the other's choice in builds. They laughed over movies and games they had played that they enjoyed, whatever niche they may have been, and laughed over some of the pop culture cult following that had sprung up around the types of things they used to think that no one else had been a fan of when they were younger. Before long, the two men had polished off their respective soups and were simply enjoying sipping at their drinks and taking pleasure in one another's company as they chatted.

“I didn't think I'd already be saying this, but,” Tristan began, casually slinging an arm around the back of his chair and reclining in a more relaxed position in his seat, “we've got a lot more in common than I thought we did.” He leveled an alarmingly heavy stare laden with meaning that Myrick didn’t know how to untangle. “ I don't think I've felt this close to someone in a long time.” Myrick’s face suddenly felt hot, and Tristan’s stare was too heavy for him to bear, his own gaze skittering away sheepishly.

Neither of them were drunk, that much was apparent, but there was just enough alcohol in their systems to make barriers they had established seem a lot more optional now. Instinct was a voice in the back of Myrick’s head that was just a little bit louder, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore. The fact that Tristan was an Alpha, staring at him with such open want and meaning suddenly made Myrick feel exposed, open to things that he didn’t want to feel open to, though his lowered inhibitions were making it more and more impossible to ignore that little lonely corner of his heart that yearned for companionship, had always ached for it.

“I'm wondering something, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me for just a little longer,” Tristan continued, and Myrick was startled out of the panicked swirl of thoughts that had so quickly assaulted his head, alarmed that he was suddenly being this casual with Tristan, how little it had taken for Myrick to lower his walls around him. Myrick swallowed around the lump in his throat, opting to nod as opposed to simply answer with words, despite how much tea he had been drinking over the course of the night, his throat suddenly felt shockingly dry. “Is there someone waiting for you at home, wondering where you are?”

Myrick’s stomach dropped.

He knew where this had gone, the turn that this had taken; ‘Are you available to be courted?’ It was the unspoken question, one that he never wanted to answer for anyone—answering that question meant he was left vulnerable, exposed, and open to being used and manipulated to suit someone else’s needs at the cost of his own. He mentally cursed himself for allowing the conversation to be taken to the one place he had been fighting to keep every conversation he ever had from going to, and desperately tried to rack his brain for a way to pull it back to a more cordial and friendly place without putting himself at risk, without putting his very life in danger.

Any words that might have been formed in his head turned to static in the wake of the overwhelming sickness that twisted his stomach into a gnarled and tangled mess of emotions that he couldn’t find the beginning or end of. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the room was beginning to tilt and suddenly he needed to not be here. Such tumultuous feelings didn’t seem to want to coexist in his gut with any of the food he’d just eaten—which was such a shame, because that was some of the best udon that he’d had in a while—and a wave of nausea began to wash over him. In spite of the lump in his throat he forced himself to swallow heavily around it, though it did nothing to dispel the feeling that he was going to be ill.

“...Myrick...?” Though his vision was swimming, he was aware of Tristan moving—closer? He hoped not; he was panicking, he realized this distantly, and he knew that he didn’t want anyone or anything to make him feel even remotely boxed in when he was feeling like this, like a cornered animal about to be devoured. “You don’t look so good—are you all right?” He shuddered when Tristan was suddenly in his personal space, perhaps intending to take advantage of him?

His fear gripped his thoughts, and while he was fully aware of that, he couldn’t stop the way that he completely and utterly reverted to the feeling of being near an Alpha automatically equalled danger, hurt, and fear. When he saw a large hand reach for him it was difficult to conjure anything in his head but the words ‘get away get away get away GET AWAY,’ and suddenly he was pushing past the towering man, rushing toward the sign that pointed toward the bathrooms.

He just barely managed to stagger into the correct bathroom before he did his best to lock himself in a stall—the lock was misaligned, and it didn’t want to slot into the bolt but he didn’t have time for worrying about that because the nausea became a very pressing concern, and he barely managed to whir around and sink to his knees in front of the toilet before he began to empty his stomach.

The udon didn’t taste nearly as wonderful coming back up.

At some point in the middle of him being sick, he felt a large hand on his back, and he tensed, waiting for some abstract concept of pain to come for him, when it merely began to rub gently up and down his back. Faintly, somewhere far away from where his focus was, he could hear Tristan speaking, his voice deep even for him, and while he couldn’t make out specific words over the sound of his own retching, he registered that the timbre of his voice was of someone comforting and reassuring him. There was no real reason for that voice to soothe him in the way that it did, and while it did nothing for his nausea, the source of it became marginally more manageable.

When he finally had nothing else to empty into the porcelain bowl, he simply flushed the toilet and stayed knelt there for a few moments longer, gulping in air and trying not to use it to heave sobs out of his chest. All the while, Tristan stayed behind him, his hand rubbing vague, abstract patterns on his back gently, voice making soft, soothing noises until Myrick was confident that he could stand without risking nausea again.

“I’m so sorry about that, boss man,” Tristan said, helping him stand up, large hand still solid and warm at the small of his back. “I never wanted to make you uncomfortable.”

“It wasn’t—you didn’t—” Myrick wanted to say that Tristan wasn’t the one to set it off, though it would have only been a half truth. “You didn’t mean to,” was what he finally settled on, and he found that it was the truth; whatever he had intended, it was clearly not to scare or hurt him.

“Doesn’t make it okay.” Tristan shook his head. “I…ah, I’m something of a serial flirt, and I didn’t mean for that to come out—it’s unprofessional, and you’re my boss—”

“We’re not in the office,” Myrick went to the sink, swishing water in his mouth to chase out the lingering taste of being sick. It was a small thing, but it made him feel noticeably better, made talking marginally easier now that the burning in his throat was somewhat quenched. “And we were having a good time. I’m not going to hold one off comment against you.”

“I’m not gonna bring it up again, I swear.” Tristan removed his hand, and Myrick winced at how keenly he felt the loss of the solid warmth at the center of his mass, grounding him as he steadied himself. Myrick couldn’t bring himself to stare directly in Tristan’s eyes in that moment, lingering fears tingeing his thoughts even still, so he focused on his neck, an easier thing to stare at.

“Thank you,” Myrick finally spoke up softly, earnestly. “For respecting that boundary, now that you know it’s there.”

“That’s a basic human decency thing.” Though Myrick still wasn’t looking up at his face, he watched Tristan’s body language as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. “That’s not something you have to thank anyone for, boss.”

“I don’t really get it from many people in this regard.” Myrick raked a trembling hand through his hair. “Usually, when people get to this point they don’t stop, because they only want one thing from me. It’s only ever one thing.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh. “So I wouldn’t know, I guess.” There was a long moment when neither of them said anything, where the only sound in the room was Myrick taking deeper than normal breaths to try and center himself under his own power.

“Will you be able to get home on your own?” Tristan asked after another moment of silence, when Myrick leaned against the cool bathroom wall. He didn’t even care that it was probably the least sanitary surface he had ever pressed his face against in that moment; it was colder than his fevered skin, so it was heavenly as far as he was concerned at present. “It doesn’t have to be me that drives you home—do you have someone you can call?”

“No, no I’m fine,” Myrick stammered even as he swayed on his feet. “I just need a minute, yeah?” He groaned at the way his legs shook, and he found himself leaning against the wall again. Wall was stable, wall was good, he decided, pressing the center of his weight there.

“You don’t look fine,” Tristan shook his head, though made no move to touch him. Myrick was grateful for that, for him being conscious of what Myrick was feeling.

“Yeah,” he sighed, admitting defeat. “Yeah, I don’t feel great all of a sudden.” He cursed the fact that he couldn’t seem to get his heart rate to drop, his legs to stop trembling. His mental state made it far too risky for him to even attempt operating a car, even for the short distance as he had to get home.

“Can you call someone?” Tristan asked again. “I don’t mind waiting with you for them to get here if you do.”

“Could try Isabelle.” Myrick noted, hands shaky as they fished his phone out of his pocket, clumsily dialing her number and holding the phone to his ear. It rang, and rang, and just when he began to worry, he heard what he thought was the phone being picked up.

“Hey there—”

“Isabelle, I—”

“You’ve reached my voicemail! Sorry I can’t get to you right now, just please leave me a message and—” he hung up the phone without bothering to leave a voicemail, despondent.

“Answering machine?” Tristan asked him softly. He groaned and nodded, regretting the motion when his head swam. He stuffed his phone back in his pocket with a huff. “I’d say you could call a cab or something, but I’m not sure you’d make it to your door in one piece.”

“Me neither, honestly.” Myrick slid down the wall and put his head in his hands. He felt wrung out; the crash after anxiety attacks always left him feeling shaky, and that typically wasn’t an issue because normally when he allowed himself to have them, he was already home or in his office. He’d spent more than one night sleeping at his desk because he knew he wasn’t in any condition to drive after having an attack seize him up like they always did.

“Are you comfortable with me driving you home? I can explain what happened to the manager of the establishment, and if they won’t let us leave your car here, I can just drive it back to the garage and run back here—”

“Tristan.”

“Yeah?” He stopped his rant halfway through when Myrick spoke up, and when he sucked in a breath and lifted his head, he saw that Tristan was completely focused on him, concern etched in his every feature. Seeing someone so worried for him made him feel at ease in a way he wasn’t expecting to feel considering this was also the person that set off his panic attack in the first place, however accidental it may have been. It was likely because Myrick was just tired and wanted to go home, he didn’t really care about the reason for him relaxing a little more; what mattered was that he felt a little less like needles were trying to poke out from beneath his skin, so he would just be grateful for what he was feeling and not dwell on it.

“Can you take my car back to the garage and give me a ride home?” He hung his head back into his hands, keeping it upright being too taxing on him at present. “I can pay for the meal—”

“I’m still paying for dinner, Myrick.” He thought he might have heard Tristan chuckle softly. “But yeah, are you okay with staying here? Do you want me to bring you some water before I take care of your car?” Myrick shook his head, ‘no,’ too tired to talk. “Okay, how about you take a seat back at the table while I’m gone? That way if you need something, you can ask a waitress.”

“Yeah…” Tristan helped him stand again. “Yeah, okay.” There was a hand at the small of his back again, and it was what helped keep him upright on the trip back to their table. The restaurant had too many smells and too much noise, but at least he couldn’t smell his own sick anymore, clinging to the air. Wordlessly, he handed Tristan his car keys, which the man took in his hands gently, seemingly mindful of how his movements registered to Myrick.

“I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Myrick said nothing as Tristan went to the counter to pay the bill and head to his car. It was good to have the space to himself for a moment, to center himself without the source of his anxiety there; he was, more often than not, able to calm himself down much quicker when he was by himself rather than when he was around other people. Granted, he wasn’t exactly alone, as the restaurant had a few other patrons at other tables, but the soft din of the establishment, now that he had settled around it, had become so much white noise which helped keep out the deafening roar of silence.

He never did well with silence anyway.

In his head, he knew that it wouldn’t take Tristan long; the car ride here had taken him no more than five minutes, give or take, not counting his panicked phone call to Isabelle before he had even left, and he had no doubt that Tristan would hurry. Much as he felt emotionally drained and pulverized, even he could recognize the guilt in Tristan’s eyes when he’d managed to look up at him. That was probably why he was fine with Tristan taking him home; he was the first one that had bothered to show remorse for making him feel uncomfortable. He even wanted to try and make amends. Even if it had been for no other motivation than the fact that Myrick was his boss, as unlikely as that seemed even in his addled state he didn’t care; Tristan had given a shit, and that was what mattered at the end of the day.

He was so starved for respect, he’d take what he could get.