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“I… I, uh, made you lunch,” I said, suddenly feeling foolish as I held out the box in the little black insulated bag. “I know you have a gourmet chef at work, so it’s okay if you don’t want it.”

He stared at it like this was the first time he’d ever seen an insulated bag.

“It’s just a bento,” I rambled, wondering if he could feel my anxiety rising. “There’s the fried chicken bites you liked from dinner last week. Marinated in ginger and soy. Some rice with furikake—oh, and those little rolled omelets you like. I ordered those yesterday though, from that sushi place. I can’t quite make them right yet. And I pickled some cucumbers because I noticed you always eat those first…”

“You made me lunch.” His voice was so quiet, so surprised, that I stopped mid-sentence.

“What?”

“No one’s ever…” He left the sentence hanging. He took the bag from me and held it like it might explode. His thumb brushed the edge of the zipper, slow and unsure.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, but his grip on the bag tightened.

“I wanted to,” I said simply. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I added, “I like taking care of you.”

Something flashed in his eyes, dark and hungry. In one fluid motion, he slammed me against the wall, his mouth crushing mine like he’d been starving for it. His knee split my thighs, and I ground against him until my cock ached.

He gripped my hips and held me steady. When I gasped, his hand slid to my throat. He didn’t squeeze. He just kept me there, exactly where he wanted me, like letting go wasn’t an option.

“Theo,” he rasped, like it meantmine.

“Alpha,” I breathed, shifting my hips just to feel the outline of his hard cock against me.

“I have to go,” he said, his voice rough. His eyes searched mine, like leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. “But we’re continuing this later.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He pushed off the wall and paused to kiss me on the cheek, just like he had done with Mackenzie.

And then he was gone, with the lunch bag swinging from his fingertips, leaving me slumped against the wall, a puddle of slick and omega need.

JUSTICE

I closed my office door carefully behind me, not slamming it. Which, given my mood, should earn me a gold fucking star. The product demo had gone well. That is, after the lead engineer forgot to be scared of me. Whatever. That’s his issue.

My head was screaming from the tension crawling up my shoulders. I looked at the coffeepot in the corner. I didn’t need caffeine, I needed hydration. I pulled open the mini-fridge, and the lunch bag stared back at me.

Theo’s bento.

I placed it on my desk and opened it slowly. The only other person who had ever brought me lunch was Ren. When we were kids, I had known he was making giant sandwiches for himself, just so that he could give me half. I had always been grateful, but as a kid, it had always been embarrassing and shameful. I hated that I hadn’t had normal parents who did things like make lunch.

The lid came off to reveal… perfection. It was like a PackSpace pic come to life on my desk. Fuck restaurant quality. This was foodie obsession quality. And made just for me.

Theo had thought of everything, right down to a folded napkin, chopsticks, and a tiny little bottle of brown sauce.

I stared at it for a long moment, almost afraid to mess with the perfection. I took a bite of the chicken, and it practically melted on my tongue. It was salty, a little sweet with the sauce. I chased it with a bit of rice that was perfectly sticky. I closed my eyes, savoring it. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until that moment. And not just for food, but for this kind of care. For my omega.

“Well, this is a shocker.”

I looked up to find Daisy standing in my doorway. She was tall for a woman, but she took up way more space than her physical frame commanded. That was partly because of her alpha aura, but mostly because of her no-bullshit attitude.

“What?” I asked, already defensive.

“You, eating lunch. At your desk. From what appears to be,” she squinted, “a homemade bento box? After your long-standing objection to the meal prep trend?”

I had, in fact, delivered several rants about the absurdity of Sunday meal prep. I had held back on the PowerPoint, however. Why spend hours making mediocre food that would only get worse day by day? When we had been dreaming up the company back in college, catered lunches were the first thing on our perk list.

I set the chopsticks down. “My, uh… my omega made it for me,” I said, trying to keep my voice matter-of-fact. I wasn’t used to this new normal yet, and fuck knows what Daisy actually thought about it.