I get to the bar and I can hear the tail end of what the guy is saying. "—should get a drink after the panels tomorrow. Just the two of us. I know a great spot in town." His voice is smooth and confident, the voice of a man who's used to getting whathe wants. He's got his palm on Miles's lower back now, casual, possessive, and Miles is rigid under the touch.
"That's a generous offer," Miles says, his voice perfectly polite and perfectly cold. "But my schedule is quite full."
"I'm sure we can find a gap." The alpha smiles. He still hasn't moved.
"Hey, boss." I step up next to Miles, close enough that my shoulder brushes his. I pass him the glass of water I grabbed from one of the waiters on my way over, because I noticed he finished his drink and hasn't gotten another one, because I notice everything about him and I can't stop. "Sorry to interrupt. Richard Aldridge was asking about the Morrison presentation. He wants to go over the AV specs."
It's a lie. Richard is on the other side of the room talking to a judge. But Miles takes the water and the escape route in the same smooth motion, turning to me with an expression that's pure professional gratitude and nothing else.
"Of course. If you'll excuse me," he says to the alpha, and we're moving away from the bar before the guy can respond.
We walk through the crowd side by side, not touching, and Miles doesn't say anything until we're in a quieter corner near the service hallway. He stops and takes a sip of the water and I watch his grip on the glass. Steady. His face is steady. Everything about him is steady, and I know it's all a lie because I can see the tension in his jaw and the way he's holding his shoulders.
"Thank you," he says. It's quiet and clipped and it costs him to say it.
"Who was that?"
"No one. A partner from another firm."
"He was touching your back."
"I'm aware."
"Did you want him to?"
Miles looks at me, and for a second the mask slips. Just a flash — tired and angry and grateful underneath. "No," he says. "I didn't."
"Okay." I want to go back over there and break the guy's wrist. I want to say nobody gets to touch you like that. But those are insane, possessive thoughts — exactly the kind of alpha bullshit I've never felt before in my life. "You want to get out of here for a minute? Get some air?"
He pauses for a long time.
"Yes."
We walk down the service hallway, away from the music and the noise. It's quieter back here. The lighting is dimmer. I can hear the muffled thump of the string quartet through the walls, and our footsteps on the carpet, and Miles breathing.
He stops walking. We're in the hallway between the bathrooms, alone, and he's leaning against the wall with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, and he looks exhausted. Not physically — deeper than that. Exhausted from performing. Exhausted from being the version of himself that everyone in that room needs him to be.
"You okay?" I ask.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"Garcia, I said I'm—"
"You had some asshole pawing at your back and you couldn't do anything about it because you're at a work event and you have to smile and take it, and now you're standing in a hallway looking like you want to put your fist through the wall. That's not fine."
His eyes open. He looks at me, and it's the same expression from the plane — angry and scared and hungry — except now it's worse because I just did the one thing nobody else in that ballroom would have noticed he needed.
"Why do you care?" he asks, and his voice cracks on the last word.
"You know why."
"Don't."
"Miles—"
"Don't call me that."