Page 24 of Obey

From the kitchen, Jace hollers, “Dinner’s al dente, gentlemen! Look at me, multitasking like a champ!”

Elias’s mouth curves slightly, the faintest glimmer of amusement. “Rock, paper, scissors for who has to break it to the pup.”

"Not it," I call, then haul myself upright, buttoning my pants and joining Jace at the kitchen peninsula. He's already got three bowls lined up and twirls spaghetti with the theatrical wrist-flick of a late-night food show host.

I catch my reflection in the refrigerator as I pass, Elias's mark already darkening beneath my jaw. My personal life has never been a threat to the business I've spent years building, and I have no intention of letting Sloane Harper change that.

Because four weeks ago, Sloane was just an employee.

Now we’re making rules because of her.

seven

Close Proximity

Every Friday at noon, the engineering department fights over puppy-walking duty as if their lives depend on it.

SOLAÉ sponsors a local animal shelter downtown, which means every Friday, a rotation of rescue dogs gets brought through the building for “employee wellness.”

Today’s argument is happening beside the lobby waterfall.

“You had Winston last week.”

“And you had Pancake twice.”

“That dog likes me better.”

I step around them with my coffee, catching sight of the company’s gold emblem shimmering beneath the water while three senior engineers debate custody rights over a Pitbull in a tiny sweater.

Six months ago, I would've thought this company was insane.

Now I understand why nobody leaves.

Designers huddle around prototype sketches like they’re handling state secrets. Marketing interns rehearse pitches over matcha lattes and existential dread. Everyone works hard, but the difference here is that somebody actually notices.

Brutal quarters come with bonuses. Major launches earn actual time off. The therapy stipend alone would make my former HR department burst into tears.

The Trinity had figured out something most employers seemed determined to ignore: people worked harder when they actually felt valued.

But the perks aren't what keep me here.

It's Nate, Elias, and Jace. They don't just acknowledge the work I do. They pay attention to the person doing it, and I'm still getting used to what that feels like.

Take Jace, for example.

He’s constantly crossing time zones, juggling back-to-back marketing pushes, global rollouts and still has to make time for the engineering team. Yet despite the fatigue shadowing his eyes, he always swings by my desk clutching little mementos from wherever he’s been; proof that amid the chaos, he notices details.

Just last week, I found him asleep on one of the couches in the executive lounge, hoodie unzipped and curls falling into his eyes.

I covered him with a throw and tried to slip away when his fingers caught my wrist before I made it two steps.

“How long was I out?” he mumbled.

“Not long enough.” I glanced toward the hallway. “You should probably go before Nate or Elias finds you. You know, they hate when you come in barely functioning.”

Instead, he sat up and reached for his messenger bag. “I brought you something from Spain.” He pulled out a black box trimmed in gold. “Barcelona’s finest truffles.”

“Jace—”