“Is that...” He leans forward, squinting at the screen. “The Underground?”
“It is,” I say.
A faint smile flashes across his mouth. He studies the sketch and finally says in his “boss” tone, “Your flow through the central section is strong. But these turns here”—he gestures with his free hand, tracing an invisible line—“they’re too tight for the velocity you’ll carry off this drop.”
Itilt the tablet, studying it. “You think I should widen it?”
“Not necessarily.” His tone softens. “Just offset the banking a few degrees more on the entry. It’d smooth the transition without killing the excitement.”
I stare at the track line, replaying it in my head. He’s right. “Thanks, I didn’t think of that.” I make a mental note to adjust the curve later. Then, lowering the tablet, I turn my full attention back to him. “How’s your weekend going?”
He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s almost a laugh, though it’s laced with a deep, bone-weary fatigue. “Dreadfully slow.”
“Slow?” I echo. “That’s not a word I usually associate with you.”
“London’s a brilliant city,” he says after a pause, eyes drifting off-screen for a moment, “but my people are five time zones away.”
My heart gives a frantic, uneven little thump.My people.It’s such a simple phrase, yet it feels like he’s just handed me a key to a door I wasn’t sure I was allowed to open.
“What about your grandmother? Could you go visit her?”
He nods once. “In theory, yes. But weekends like this, the motorways are a mess. One accident on the M4 and you’re stuck crawling the whole way.”
“What about the train?”
“Too slow for me.”
“How far is Devon from where you are now?”
“About three and a half hours if the traffic behaves. Or five hours by train.” He lifts his mug slightly, hisexpression wry. “If I had my bike, I’d consider it. The ride’s actually beautiful.”
I arch a brow, leaning back against my sofa cushions. “What exactly do you have against cars or trains, Mr. Riverton? Aside from the lack of wind in your hair?”
He takes a sip from his mug, thinking. “The sitting-still part. I need movement. Patience has never been my strong suit.”
I shift on the couch, curling one leg under me. “Was that always true? Even when you were a kid?”
“Yes.” He chuckles under his breath. “Ask my teachers. I was a nightmare student. The one who’d finish an assignment in ten minutes just so I could be done with it. Then I’d spend the rest of class dismantling the school’s toys to see if I could make them work better.”
I can see it so clearly—a young, miniature version of the man on my screen, probably with the same intense brow and restless hands, making life difficult for some poor primary-school teacher while he “optimized” a wooden train set. “Did you?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” he admits, a glint of boyish pride in his eyes. “More often, I was sent to the headmaster’s office fordestructivenessbefore I got the chance to put them back together. They didn’t see the vision, Kaori.”
I study the crease in his shirtsleeve, the way his fingers curl loosely around the mug, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. “Did you always know you wanted to be an engineer?” I ask.
“Yes. My grandad worked in attraction design, and I wanted to be exactly like him.” He offers a self-conscious shrug. “My mother was hoping I’d be a surgeon, but I would’ve been a terrible doctor. Machines make sense. Ifsomething’s broken, you can find the fault and fix it. People aren’t like that. Too many variables.”
He stares into his mug for a second, his expression unreadable. “Maybe that’s why my parents’ divorce didn’t surprise me. They were two variables that simply couldn’t be solved together. My mum moved back to France as soon as the papers were signed, and my father left me with Nan and Grandad. I think I learned early on that it’s easier to focus on a mechanical problem than a domestic one.”
I stay quiet for a beat. Hearing about his parents explains a lot about why he is the way he is. So quiet and always lingering in the background. I want nothing more than to offer him a great big hug.
The nature of our relationship is changing. He’s more than just a boss and a friend to me. He’s... I pause. I don’t even know exactly what to label it. No word feels right. He’s just my Theo. Yes,mine.
“What’syourstory?”
For a moment, I consider giving a light answer. But Theo deserves the real one. He’s just shared something incredibly personal with me, and I know he didn’t do that lightly. If he’s willing to let me see the cracks in his foundation, the least I can do is show him some of mine.
“Do you remember how I was in the hallway the day the power went out?” I ask softly.
