The presenter clicks to the next slide. "Phase II testing of the ex-uterine gestational support system, also referred to as the artificial womb platform. Our objective was to evaluate the system's ability to sustain fetal development in a controlled extrauterine environment while maintaining physiological parameters comparable to in-utero conditions. The study involved three primary evaluation categories: hemodynamic stability—"
Mohamad hears none of it. Numbers shift across the screen. Failures. Passes. Growth curves. Survival rates.Important. All of it important.
He stares past them. It comes again. That sensation. Not pain. Not distraction. Something quieter. Deeper. A pull.
Mohamad closes his eyes. The room stills instantly. The presenter cuts off mid-sentence. Chairs stop shifting. No
one breathes too loudly. He opens his eyes. All of them are watching him. Waiting. Expecting direction. Interpretation. Approval. He has nothing. Not today.
Mohamad stands and walks out without a word. Behind him, Jason clears his throat and smoothly takes over. Reliable. Predictable. Efficient. Just the way he prefers things. But this—This isn't. The feeling follows him into the hallway. Unsettling. Persistent.
Her face flashes in his mind. Not clearly. Just a fragment. The curve of her smile. The softness in her eyes. He refocuses on the file in his hand. It returns. A tug. Subtle at first. Then heavier when he doesn't push it away. It gathers weight, sharpening into something he refuses to examine.
He forces his attention back to work. It's been like this for two days. This strangeness.
Mohamad scans his office as he enters, gaze moving across the furniture, the desk, the windows—as if searching for something misplaced. He doesn't know what. But something is missing. He sits. Opens the file. Reads the first paragraph twice. Retains none of it. The feeling lingers. Quiet. Patient. Waiting.
Jason arrives to collect him for lunch. Mohamad reads the client briefing in the car. Market share. Acquisition structure. Risk exposure. Then—A whisper. Her voice. I love you even if you don't give me what I want.
Mohamad's eyes shift to the empty space beside him. For a moment, he can almost see her there. Leaning back. Relaxed. Smiling at him like she always does when she says something reckless. Warm. Present. I love you regardless. His fingers tighten slightly around the iPad.
"Are you all right?" Jason asks from across the limo.
Mohamad clears his throat and lowers his gaze. "Yes."
The conversation continues. Casual talk before business. Numbers. Strategy. Timelines. He listens. Or tries to. The feeling returns. Quietly threading through everything.
At the restaurant, he stares down at his favorite steak. Perfect sear. Rich aroma. Exactly how he likes it. He should be hungry. He hasn't eaten all day. He cuts a piece. Takes a bite. Nothing. No satisfaction. No interest. Just texture.
He chews slowly, expression unchanged. Something is missing. He sets the fork down. Picks it up again out of habit. Cuts another piece. Another bite. Still nothing. Tasteless. Bland. Boring. Without her.
He swallows. The thought follows. He swallows that too and continues eating.
This is wrong. Something's wrong with him. After lunch, he turns to Jason. "Call Dr. Halvorsen."
Jason blinks. "Why? What's wrong?"
Mohamad doesn't answer. He doesn't know either. But something isn't right.
Dr. Halvorsen—his college friend and now the principal investigator on Project Eve—arrives at the hotel suite less than twenty minutes later, briefcase in hand, tie slightly crooked from the rush.
"Heard from Jason you've been distracted," Halvorsen says, already pulling out a stethoscope. "Not sleeping. Not eating. That doesn't sound like you."
Mohamad sits without protest.
"Let's see." Halvorsen checks his pulse. Then again. Slower this time.
"Any pain?"
"No."
"Headaches?"
"No."
"Loss of appetite?"
A pause. "…Yes."
"Stress?"
Mohamad considers it. The meetings. The numbers. The decisions.
No. "…No."
Halvorssen glances at Jason. Then back at Mohamad. "Anything unusual?"
Mohamad's eyes drift briefly toward the empty space beside him. Warmth. A smile. A voice. I love you regardless.
He looks away. "…No."
"Why can't you sleep?"
"... My heart..." it flutters. Stir by what he doesn't know.
"What about your heart?" Halvorsen sees it. The hesitation.
"Nothing" Mohamad can't say.
"All right… what's on your mind when you're distracted?" Halvorsen asks, narrowing his eyes.
"Nothing… unusual."
Halvorsen studies him for a long moment. Then turns to Jason. "Has he been having sex—"
"That's enough. You can go now," Mohamad says.
Halvorsen frowns. "You're not sleeping. Your appetite's off. Your focus is impaired. You haven't had sex. You're not stress. Something changed."
Mohamad's jaw tightens.
Jason steps forward. "Why don't we let him rest."
Halvorsen hesitates, then moves toward the door with Jason. He stops before exiting and looks back.
"Physically, you're fine," he says quietly. "Whatever this is… it's probably psychological. Or emotional."
Mohamad says nothing.
"If you want to talk," Halvorsen adds, "you know how to reach me."
They step into the hallway. The door closes. Halvorsen turns sharply to Jason.
Jason was expecting it. "I think…" Jason lowers his voice. "He's missing her. It's been eight days. The longest they've been apart since—" He trails off.
Halvorsen tilts his head. "Since?"
Jason exhales slowly. "Since they are together."
He explains. From the beginning. New Year's Eve. The private room at Akira Lounge. The immediate investigation. The prebooking. The escalation. The progression. The dependency. Halvorsen listens without interrupting.
When Jason finishes, silence stretches between them.
"So…" Halvorsen says carefully, like testing a foreign word. "He's… lovesick?"
Even saying it sounds absurd. Mohamad. Cold. Calculated. Vindictive. Lovesick?
Jason looks just as unconvinced. "…Possible."
Both men turn toward the closed hotel suite door.
"That's…" Halvorsen exhales slowly. "I'm not sure how I feel about this."
"Me either," Jason says. "But the signs are there." Loss of appetite. Distraction. Sleep disruption. Emotional fixation.
"If you're right," Halvorsen says slowly, "the cure is simple. He just needs to—"
The door opens. Mohamad steps out. His stride is fast. Focused. Decisive. That familiar, controlled intensity back in his eyes — but sharper now. Driven.
Both men fall silent. Something has already changed.