ALEXANDER
The knock came precisely eight minutes after Dashiell's message.
"Come in."
The door opened, and one of the hospital security supervisors stepped inside carrying a matte black box tied with a silver ribbon. Without a word, he crossed the office and placed it in the centre of my desk.
"I collected it from Dr. Harper's office, sir."
"Did anyone open it?"
"No, sir."
I gave a brief nod.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the office silent once more.
My attention remained on the operative report glowing across my monitor—a forty-three-year-old patient with an ascending aortic aneurysm, cross-clamp time, estimated blood loss, valve inspection. I finished the paragraph, saved the document, and only then looked at the box.
Anthony never did anything by halves. Even the presentation was calculated—the silver ribbon, the expensive wrapping, the quiet promise that whatever waited inside deserved anticipation.
I reached for the envelope first.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Inside was a single card.
For the brilliant Dashiell.
Something to remind you of better options.
— A.
The corner of my mouth lifted, not in amusement but recognition.
Predictable.
Anthony had never wanted things for their own sake.
He wanted what already belonged to someone else.
When we were children, a book given to me became the exact edition he suddenly needed. Praise for one of my examination scores sent him into months of determined effort to surpass it. When effort failed, he found other ways to obtain what he wanted.
He preferred acquisition to earning.
He always had.
Now Dashiell was simply the latest—and by far the most valuable—thing I possessed.
My gaze settled on the card again.
Better options.
He wasn't referring to the gift.
He meant himself.
Delusional.
I set the card aside, untied the ribbon, and lifted out the velvet presentation box. Unnecessarily expensive. Precisely the sort of detail Anthony appreciated.
Inside, nestled against the black lining, rested a platinum fountain pen engraved with Dashiell's initials.
D.H.A.
A beautiful instrument.
Anthony had been paying attention. He'd noticed Dashiell's habit of writing important notes by hand before transferring them to his tablet.
A considerate gesture.
If it hadn't been so obviously calculated.
Beneath the pen lay another folded card.
Every brilliant mind deserves someone who truly appreciates it.
My expression didn't change.
Of course it hadn't.
Nothing Anthony gave was ever just a gift. Every gesture was calculated. Every kindness came with an expectation.
This was no different.
I closed the case, set it aside, and reached for my phone.
There was only one message to send.
Alexander: Come to my office when your morning clinic finishes.
His reply arrived less than a minute later.
Dashiell: Okay.
No questions.
No hesitation.
Just trust.
I looked at the velvet case once more.
Anthony had always mistaken persistence for possibility.
There wasn't one.
Dashiell had already made his choice.
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, my gaze drifted back to the pen.
Anthony had chosen it because he expected Dashiell to use it. He wanted his presence woven into every note my husband wrote, every patient detail transferred from paper to tablet, every moment the platinum rested between those long, delicate fingers.
A gift designed to become part of a routine.
Clever but not clever enough.
I lifted the pen from its cradle. It had a satisfying weight, perfectly balanced. I uncapped it and drew a blank sheet of hospital stationery towards me.
The nib moved effortlessly across the page.
Alexander Astor.
The ink settled in one clean, unbroken line.
An exceptional instrument.
I laid the pen across the paper, leaving my signature visible beneath it, then rested my left hand beside it. The wedding band caught the light.
That was enough.
Dashiell's initials.
My signature.
My wedding ring.
Anthony's number remained in my phone. Deleting it would have served no practical purpose.
I took a photograph and sent it without a caption.
Delivered.
Four seconds later:
Read.
No reply followed.
I hadn't expected one.
Anthony understood implication better than explicit warning. The pen had reached me before it ever reached Dashiell. I'd used Anthony's gift to write my own name, then placed it beside the ring that made Dashiell my husband. The message required no caption
No further explanation was necessary.
My phone vibrated again.
The operating theatre coordinator.
Your 9:30 VATS wedge resection is ready. Anaesthesia has completed induction.
9:27.
I returned the pen to its case, locked my phone, and stood.
Anthony could decide for himself what the photograph meant.
I had a patient waiting.
The pulmonary nodule lay near the outer edge of the right upper lobe, exactly where the imaging had predicted.
It was an uneventful procedure.
Three thoracoscopic ports. A careful inspection of the pleural cavity. The suspicious section of lung was isolated, removed with a surgical stapler, and sent for frozen pathology.
No uncontrolled bleeding.
No air leak beyond what was expected.
The preliminary pathology confirmed clear margins.
By 11:14, the chest tube had been secured, the final incision closed, and the operation was complete.
I stripped off my gloves.
"Keep him in recovery until he's fully awake," I told the fellow. "Repeat the chest X-ray before transferring him to the floor. Call me if the drainage becomes bloody or exceeds the expected volume."
"Yes, Dr. Astor."
I left the theatre as the anaesthesia team began emergence.
The operation had required precision rather than difficulty. My hands had known what to do long before conscious thought became necessary.
They usually did.
It was 11:42 when I returned to my office.
The black box remained exactly where I'd left it.
I removed my surgical cap, discarded it, then washed my hands again despite having already scrubbed out downstairs. The familiar weight of my wedding band returned as I dried them.
My phone showed no new message from Anthony.
He had read the photograph two hours and seven minutes earlier.
Still nothing.
Exactly as intended.
Silence meant I had chosen the correct pressure point.
I sat behind my desk and reopened the operative record. The post-operative note needed only a few final additions: procedure completed, specimen sent for pathology, estimated blood loss minimal, patient stable on transfer to recovery.
I was finishing the last line when three measured knocks sounded at the door.
I paused.
Not my secretary.
She always knocked twice.
I knew that rhythm.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Dashiell stepped inside, his tablet case tucked neatly against his side.
"My morning clinic finished."
My attention drifted over him automatically.
His hair was slightly out of place near his left temple. The top button of his shirt had been left undone, and his fingers tapped twice against the edge of his tablet case before falling still.
Tired.
But nowhere near sensory overload.
He closed the door behind him before his attention shifted to the open gift case on my desk.
His gaze settled on the platinum pen.
He took a few quiet steps closer.
"That's… a platinum fountain pen," he said quietly. "Engraved with my initials."
"Yes."
I pushed my chair back slightly and held out a hand.
"Come here."
He hesitated only a second before crossing the remaining distance. The moment he was within reach, I caught his waist and pulled him down onto my lap. He made a small, startled sound but didn't resist. His tablet case rested against my shoulder as I guided his thighs to straddle me properly.
I buried my face against the side of his neck without warning.
The scent of him, clean soap, faint antiseptic from the hospital, and something uniquely his, settled the sharper edges of my mind. I rubbed my face slowly along the column of his throat, nose dragging against warm skin, then pressed open-mouthed kisses there.
My lips lingered over the faint mark I had left the night before.
Dashiell's breath hitched. His fingers found the fabric of my shirt and curled into it.
"Alexander…"
"You're mine," I murmured against his skin. "Not his."
He shifted slightly on my lap, adjusting until he was more comfortable. His voice came out quieter than usual.
"I know, that's why I didn't open the package. I told you the moment I saw it."
"Good boy."
I kissed the underside of his jaw, then higher, near his ear.
"He sent silk and a pen. Things meant to feel thoughtful. Personal." My hand slid up his back, satisfying, if only briefly, the instinct to keep him as close as physically possible. "He wants you to start associating comfort with him."
Dashiell was quiet for a moment. His fingers tapped once against my shoulder before stilling.
"That's... very inappropriate."
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His cheeks were faintly flushed. His eyes were direct, as always.
"Are you going to keep it?" he asked.
"No."
"What are you going to do with it?"
I brushed my thumb across his lower lip.
"Nothing you need to worry about."
He studied me for a few seconds longer, then nodded once. Accepting the answer without demanding more. That was one of the things I valued most about him, he rarely pushed when he sensed a boundary.
I leaned in again and pressed another slow kiss to the side of his neck, breathing him in.
His arms finally settled around my shoulders.
"Are you… angry?" he asked carefully.
I considered the question.
Anger was not the correct word. Anger implied a loss of control. What I felt was something quieter and far more deliberate.
A quiet recalibration of how much longer Anthony would be allowed to remain in proximity to someone already and irrevocably mine.
"No," I said. "I'm handling it."
Dashiell's fingers brushed the back of my neck, light and thoughtful.
"Okay."
I held him there for another long moment, face buried against his throat, the platinum pen still sitting on the desk beside us like a discarded challenge.
Anthony had made his move.
Now it was simply a matter of deciding how thoroughly to answer it.