The kind that looked almost out of place on him because it had nothing to do with power or precision or all the other things he seemed built from.
And it was just because I liked the breakfast he made.
That was… kind of cute.
Not that I was going to say that.
Ever.
Probably.
“I thought we’d review your first notes after breakfast,” Tobias said. “Then you can begin with whatever changes you feel are most urgent.”
“Okay,” I said. “I made a list yesterday.”
“I know.”
I paused, then glanced at him. “You know?”
“You left it on your desk.”
“Oh.” I relaxed slightly. “Right.”
His gaze remained on me for another moment, attentive in that way that made me feel much too seen.
“I didn’t read it,” he added, surprising me.
I didn’t know why, exactly.
Maybe because Tobias seemed like the sort of person who read everything. Every room. Every silence. Every movement.
But he hadn’t read my notes.
He’d left them alone.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
Maybe Ben was right.
Maybe Tobias didn’t offer comfort lightly.
Maybe that was what made it feel so disorienting when he did.
I took another bite, hiding my smile behind my fork.
Maybe the longer I worked here, the more I’d start seeing the parts of Tobias Kelly that didn’t show up in donor profiles or aquarium gossip.
The strange parts.
The stiff parts.
The thoughtful, oddly sweet parts that made breakfast with his own hands.
11
Tobias
By noon, I had concluded that breakfast had been an unnecessary variable.
