PERCY.
The relentless stream of emails bombarded my inbox. By mid-morning, the reports confirming that my residential concepts—translated into the latest pop-up store designs—were wildly popular and bringing in substantial profit had blurred into a distant background noise. Objectively, this was a good thing. A testament to my aesthetic vision and the strength of the family business. But the immediate, crushing wave of work—project revisions, team briefings, supplier negotiations—had doubled my already over-engineered schedule. The pressure was mounting, and I felt it deep in my bones.
I leaned back in my office chair at the apartment, dragging my fingers across the bridge of my nose, trying to clear the fog of stress. It wasn't the work itself that was wearing me down; it was the internal conflict raging beneath the surface. I fought an almost irrational urge—an impulsive, persistent itch—to check if Gemini had left any dishes in the sink, just to find a reason to move from my seat, to check his space, to see him. Stop it, Percy. Just stop.
I still had no clear answer as to why I was acting this way around Gemini. The desire for proximity, that almost territorial instinct to keep him near, had become a serious, unacceptable distraction—one that defied every logical fiber of my being. My medical history confirms I do not typically become emotionally dependent after a fever. The only logical conclusion was that I have gotten too attached, and the solution is to reset the boundaries. And to do that? I needed distance—significant, complete distance from him.
I pulled up my calendar, eyes scanning the upcoming weeks. My mother had scheduled a trip to the West Coast to scout locations for a new pop-up store. As the lead designer, I was responsible for its development. It was the perfect, undeniable excuse to get out of town.
Without hesitation, I immediately contacted the pilot. "Prepare the jet. ASAP. Full capacity for a week-long business trip. Classes can wait; this is a priority."
The plan was simple: I needed space. Time away from his quiet, trusting smile. Away from the constant, low-level temptation to reach out and pull him closer. Away from the unsettling, persistent comfort of his presence that had become an inconvenient, almost addictive need since the fever broke.
Within two hours, I was airborne. The city's noise faded behind me, replaced by the sterile, high-altitude quiet of the family's private jet. But even the silence didn't bring relief. The meetings started almost immediately upon landing—power brokers demanding, manufacturers presenting, and my mother, with her legendary professional sharpness, leading the charge.
We were deep in a discussion about material sourcing—an area that usually commands my complete, granular attention—when my mother paused, her sharp gaze fixed on me across the glossy table.
"Percy," she called out softly but with unmistakable seriousness. "You seem to be reviewing the data sheet for the silk supplier with undue intensity. You've been staring at the same line for four minutes."
I snapped back to attention, blinking as if waking from a trance. "My apologies, Mother. Just double-checking the tensile strength on the weave."
She regarded me carefully, skepticism flickering behind her eyes. "I see," she murmured. Her familial radar was always sharp. "Is everything alright, dear? You seem… split."
I met her gaze, forcing the familiar wall of composure back into place. "Everything is perfect, Mother."
I managed to endure the day. I went through the motions—signing documents, dictating memos, engaging in the endless negotiations. But my focus was fractured. My mind kept drifting back to that final moment of unguarded contact—the weight of my arm around him, the softness of his hair against my cheek. Nothing drove me crazier than an unwanted intrusion into my carefully maintained routine, and Gemini had become that intrusion, relentless and unavoidable.
It was well past midnight when I finally found myself alone in the hotel suite I'd been assigned. The city outside was silent, the stillness magnifying the emptiness in the room. I was supposed to be reviewing notes for the morning's finance meeting, but instead, my gaze was fixed on my phone.
The logical part of me screamed: Don't do it. You came here for distance. For control.
But the other part—the part that had been activated, perhaps, by the fever—was an unbearable ache I couldn't shake. And suddenly, I didn't care about losing face or about the unspoken boundaries I was supposed to uphold. All I wanted was to hear his voice.
I picked up the phone. I didn't even bother checking the time. I didn't care. I pressed the call button and waited, the loud dial tone echoing in the midnight quiet. It rang twice.
Just as the call was about to roll to voicemail, a sleepy, low voice answered.
"Hello, Percy?"
I closed my eyes, the sound of his voice—raw and soft from sleep—like a physical comfort.
"Hey," I managed, my voice rougher than I intended.
"Percy? What's wrong? Is it still daytime over there?" he whispered, immediately sounding awake and worried. "Are you okay?"
"Everything is okay. I just needed to hear your voice," I admitted, words spilling out before I could stop them. It felt like a full surrender. I couldn't help it anymore. I was exactly where I didn't want to be: completely dependent on him.
The simple, raw "Hello, Percy?" from Gemini—so sleepy, so worried—had done more than just breach my boundaries; it had utterly annihilated them. That call, made at an unforgivable hour, was the undeniable proof I was no longer in control of my own emotions.
I spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling of the suite, unable to focus on my notes. The conversation was brief—only a few words, a reassurance that he was back asleep. I didn't hang up until I was absolutely certain he was resting.
In the morning, I returned to the routine—reviewing data, signing contracts, dictating schedules. On the surface, I was the very picture of competence. Internally, I was finalizing a decision I could no longer ignore. Creating boundaries? It hadn't worked. Enforcing distance? Only led to a desperate, late-night phone call that proved my surrender. The logical part of me was losing the battle against an overwhelming, inexplicable need for physical contact with him—a need I was willingly indulging.
"What's the point of creating the boundaries anyway?" I thought, signing the last distribution agreement. The sheer mental effort required to maintain my emotional distance was greater than simply accepting the situation. And for me? That was the real enemy.
After some pondering, I decided to abandon the fight. This strange, invasive need for contact—terrifying as it was—was also a kind of freedom. A surrender, yes. But perhaps a terrifying kind of freedom, one I could no longer resist. So I resolved to go along with it, at least as long as it helped me sleep.
I packed my minimal belongings, ignoring the curious glances from my assistant. This trip—intended to establish distance—had failed in its purpose. But it had clarified something else: this new, unsettling reality I was living in. The jet was fueled, and soon, I would be home.
I could already hear Penelope's inevitable commentary about how I liked him too much—that she wouldn't let me hear the end of it. And honestly? I wasn't sure I cared anymore.