Blue Moon - A. B. Wynter x OC - Chapter 1 - Tiny Tim
Blue Moon - A. B. Wynter x OC - Chapter 1 - Tiny Tim
Summary: Rule one: Never fall for your boss. Rule two: If you do happen to fall for your boss, never say a word.
Steph broke rule number one on the day she met Chief Usher A. B. Wynter—impossibly exacting, impossibly untouchable, and yet the only man she couldn't stop thinking about.
The question is: will she break rule two?
Warnings: Some swearing. Nothing too bad 🥰
Author’s note: Did I need another fic? No. Did I have time to write this fic? Also no. Are we doing this? Absolutely. When I watched The Residence, I FELL IN LOVE with A.B. and I just... I had no choice. This man deserves his another story arc. A happy one, thank you very much. I'm taking over this ship. Period.
I think I'm one of few A.B. Wynter x OFC fics out here (if not the only one), so if you're here, yay! Welcome! Sit back, and enjoy this piece of my mind. And cheers to the one and only Chief Usher—the man that coaxed my muse from her slumber. Bite me, A.❤️🔥
xoxo
‘So, there's this man...’
The White House, 24th of December ‘23
Kneeling on the rich Red Room carpet, Steph Harper blew a stubborn strand of her long black wavy hair out of her face, exhaling through her nose as it fell right back down again. Her hands were braced on the rug, her spine already aching from too much crouching and not enough coffee. ‘I’m deadly serious, Lilly,’ she said without looking up. ‘If Rosalind hears Tiny Tim’s gone missing, I’m toast. What happened to him? He was right here.’
Lilly Schumacher, the President’s social secretary, stood tall above Steph, arms crossed. Her perfectly sculpted features—no doubt achieved by the help of some highly esteemed cosmetic doctor and loads of money—were devoid of their usual irritation. Instead, they had softened into something unsettlingly serene. Almost… proud.
‘Gee, I don’t know where your precious Tiny Tim is, Steph,’ she said sweetly, the sharp edge in her voice barely contained. ‘I suppose he was moved when we transformed the State Dining Room into our wellness-themed space.’ She glanced towards the adjoining room. ‘Hasn’t it ever felt more wonderful?’
Steph fought the urge to roll her eyes so hard she’d sprain them. Women like Lilly were the bane of her existence—so-called innovators, who mistook disruption for brilliance, especially when it meant injecting the ridiculous theme of wellness into a space that had borne centuries of history. She and Rosalind had battled Lilly more times than she could count over pointless purchases. And yet, Lilly always returned. Unbothered. Smug as ever.
The latest monstrosity? A “wellness consultant” who cost a small fortune: St. Pierre.
St. Pierre had arrived in his tracksuit patterned with ridiculous green flowers, armed with vision boards, singing bowls and an ego the size of the Truman Balcony. Lilly had followed him like a designer-clad puppy, wagging her tail at every half-baked affirmation. Within twenty-four hours, St. Pierre had feng shui’d the State Dining Room, made the portraits disappear behind his mood boards, and declared that the historical chairs gave off a “hostile energy”. It had taken everything in Steph not to inform this sorry excuse of a man that the chairs might, in fact, find his squeaky clean white sneakers offensive—hence the hostile energy.
The worst of this ordeal? The banishment of Didier’s beloved Gingerbread White House. For years, it had been the crown jewel of the season—an edible masterpiece that drew gasps from visitors and staff alike. This year, however, St. Pierre had declared it “outdated” and “sending the wrong message about refined sugary intake”. Teaming up with Lilly, he lobbied to have it replaced with a pop-up wellness-center. Their beloved chief usher A.B. Wynter fought tooth and nail to save it, but by then the First Gentleman—bless his air-headed mind—had already approved it. And just like that, the gingerbread house was exiled to the China Room, lonely and forgotten, surrounded by porcelain and Didier’s despair.
Step rose to her feet, smoothing down her black pencil skirt and creme blouse. ‘Moved to where, Lil?’ she asked, her voice deceptively sweet. ‘I need to know.’ Lilly crossed her arms, standing tall. ‘The storage room downstairs,’ Lilly said coolly. ‘Though I did not see anyone come through the Red Room. It could easily have been one of the housekeepers misplacing your precious Tiny Tim.’ Steph’s eyes narrowed. ‘They know better than to move anything without telling Rosalind or me.’ Lilly gave a shrug that was way too innocent. ‘Then this remains a mystery.’ She brushed a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder—the icy locks a sharp contrast against her blue floral dress. ‘I told you all I know. Besides, isn’t cataloguing the artifacts your job? Yours and the curator’s?’ Steph forced a tight smile, biting back the urge to slap Miss Schumacher with a missing Tiny Tim. Everyone who’d ever set a mere toe in the White House knew it was packed with thousands of artworks, sculptures and knick-knacks of all kinds—it was impossible to keep track of every single one. That didn’t mean Rosalind and Steph tried, but things went missing more often than either liked to admit.
Like poor Tiny Tim.
‘Thank you for your help,’ Steph said, though Lilly had been about as helpful as wearing lipgloss in a storm—sticky and utterly vexing. Her black Jimmy Choos clicked impatiently against the carpet as she glanced around. ‘I’ll tell the others to look out for him while I check the storage unit downstairs.’ ‘Anytime, Steph,’ Lilly called over her shoulder, waving at her like she was the First Lady herself. ‘I hope you find your Tiny Tim.’ With that, the President’s social secretary strutted away, leaving Steph alone in the Red Room.
‘Frigid bitch,’ Steph muttered, turning towards the doorway of the State Dining Room—now tragically transformed into a wellness centre. She studied the setup, the corners of her mouth twitching faintly. After the great reveal, the “buzzing hub of wellness and relaxation” had become nothing more than a sad, silent joke. Maybe she should get Duane, the electrician who still owed her a favor, to rig up a soundbox playing crickets on a loop—just to rub in Lilly’s spectacular failure. Steph smirked at the thought but immediately abandoned it altogether A.B. might be thoroughly amused, but he’d still have her head for it.
Steph turned, casting one last wary glance over the Red Room before admitting defeat. She had checked the place thrice—Tiny Tim was nowhere to be found.
‘Hey Steph,’ Rollie greeted her as he stepped in, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve enjoyed the massage chairs before me. We had a pact.’ Steph laughed, shaking her head. ‘I wouldn’t dare, Rolls. Didier’s macarons are way too good; I can’t afford to get on his bad side.’ ‘Now that is true,’ the head butler agreed with a wink. ‘Have you swung by the China Room today?’ ‘Not yet. You?’ ‘Twice,’ he replied, tossing her a knowing glance. ‘Made sure Didier saw me, too.’ ‘Mm, more macarons for you!’ Rollie straightened his blazer with a mock-serious expression. ‘I hope so. But Didier’s been obsessed with kangaroos lately—I’m expecting some kind of kangaroo-themed masterpiece soon.’ He paused, grinning. ‘Poor A.B.’ Steph laughed. ‘Poor A.B. indeed. Speaking of our charming chief usher, have you seen him? Rosalind’s at the hospital with her mother and I’ve been hunting for a sculpture for hours. With Rosalind out, I’m afraid I might have to break the news to the big boss.’ Rollie’s expression softened into a warm, apologetic smile. ‘I don’t envy you. He’s been in one of his moods all day—everything’s got to be perfect for the families’ Christmas dinner tomorrow.’ Steph shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. She wasn’t scared of A.B.’s infamous moods; cold and demanding as he could be under his stress, she always found a way to reason with him. Maybe it was their shared love of poetry and jazz. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because she was absolutely smitten—a secret she’d take to her grave. She pursed her lips, studying Rollie for a moment. ‘I can handle the big beast, don’t worry.’ He winked. ‘Okay little lady. Last I saw, he went up to his office—probably brooding over his to-do list. Go on, you’ll have that beast purring in no time, eh?!’ Steph laughed. ‘We’ll see. Later, Rolls!’
She made her way downstairs, checking the storage rooms first—no Tiny Tim there—and then inquiring with the head of housekeeping, who hadn’t heard of the misplaced sculpture but promised to keep an eye out.
Then, armed with a tray of strong coffee and some gingerbread cookies she had stolen from the kitchen, Steph made her way up the usher’s staircase. Coffee always helped A.B. when he was in a mood—preferrably a strong brew. She knocked, waiting patiently until A.B.’s low voice told her to come in.
‘Hey A.,’ she greeted him as she slipped through the crack of the door and closed it behind her with a soft click. ‘I heard you were brooding, so I brought you coffee.’ ‘Steph,’ A.B. said, looking up from a stack of papers laying on his desk. He was dressed in a well-tailored black suit and a crisp white shirt, a blue tie perfecting his look. His greying hair reflected in the warm light of his office and his dark eyes shone kindly as he regarded her. While stress was an understandable part of the job—the chief usher was responsible for everything, after all—A.B. seemed the embodiment of composure, aside from a small tightness in his jaw. ‘I am supposed to be brooding right now?’ A.B. inquired, sounding mildly amused. ‘Who said that?’
Steph held her breath, eyes locked on him for a moment as her stomach did an embarrassing backflip. Tracksuits were not impressing her—but mature men in suits? Ugh, her absolute Achilles heel. And when that man happened to be A.B., well… that was a whole other level of torture she dealt with every single day.
‘Stephanie?’
She quickly recovered. ‘You know I cannot rat out my dear colleagues to the big boss,’ she said smoothly as she placed the tray on his desk. ‘As much as I adore you, I have to protect my sources. Besides,’ she went on as she leaned against the armchair in front of his desk, folding her arms and eyeing him defiantly. ‘It did result in coffee, so….’ ‘Are you insinuating that I’m complaining, Miss Harper?’ A.B. replied, leaning back in his seat. His dark eyes rested on her, studying her for a few seconds. ‘Because I wouldn’t dare, especially if you’ve prepared it yourself… Have you?’ ‘Extra strong,’ Steph affirmed with a grin. ‘I need to be in your good graces.’ A.B. chuckled, picking the steaming cup from the tray. ‘For what, Steph? What is it you’re after?' ‘Nothing,’ Steph replied, her eyes twinkling. ‘Though I did wonder whether you’d kill me if I asked Duane to install a sound box in the State Dining Room, so I can provide background crickets for Lilly’s lonely wellness display.’ ‘Miss Harper,’ he reprimanded her sharply, keeping his expression composed—though Steph could have sworn the corners of his mouth twitched. ‘I cannot allow such mischief in the White House,’ he said. ‘I must implore you to abandon the idea.’ ‘Consider it abandoned,’ she told him. ‘Though you must admit, the idea is hilarious.’ ‘I cannot deny or confirm such a statement,’ he said, his lips barely moving and his tone even. Steph rolled her eyes. ‘Always so composed, A.’ ‘That’s what the job requires, Miss Harper,’ he noted dryly, taking a careful sip of his coffee. ‘But surely you have more important things to do than to brew me excellent coffee.’ ‘Another reprimand? You wound me!’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Steph….’ ‘There was one small thing you should know, since I can’t pester Rosalind about it today,’ Steph conceded. ‘I can’t find Tiny Tim. He’s supposed to be on display in the Red Room, but he’s not there.’ A.B.’s brow creased. ‘Remind me who Tiny Tim is?’ A soft smile curved Steph’s lips. ‘Tiny Tim is our charming little bronze dog figurine; one of former President Calvin Coolidge’s beloved pets. Sculptor Laura Gardin Fraser made the splitting image of Timmy, or Tiny Tim, for the President and his wife in 1929.’ ‘Ah, that Tiny Tim. The most vital information for me to possess in an extensive history of this house,’ A.B. acknowledged in his low tone. ‘How could I forget?’ He paused, placing his coffee on his desk; and then added, more quietly: ‘It is strange how often things vanish these days.’
A small, thoughtful silence settled between them—steady and soft.
Steph let the pause stretch on–not deterred at all by it—relaxing in her seat. She listened to the faint footsteps of a staff member descending the usher’s staircase, her gaze distant. A.B. was right, the traditions that made the White House the institute it was, seemed to have been upheaved lately. It wasn’t unusual—each new President liked to leave their mark—but this administration seemed rather relentless. For the staff, it was an adjustment and some shouldered the changes better than others.
‘Each administration leaves its mark,’ she said finally, her voice quiet but sure. ‘But this one feels like it’s trying to remodel the walls.’ A.B. let out a soft breath through his nose; not quite a laugh, but something dangerously close. ‘There are days I suspect they’d knock the place down and rebuild it in glass, if they thought the light would photograph better,’ he confessed, his tone low. ‘It’s—’ he seemed to reflect on the slip of his tongue, the crack in his carefully maintained composure. ‘Forgive me, Stephanie. I am brooding today.’ ‘You’re not the only one brooding,’ Steph quipped. ‘Tiny Tim’s probably hiding in protest.’ Their eyes locked, dark brown clashing with vivid blue—something unspoken brewing between them. ‘A silent act of resistance?’ A.B. mused, one brow lifting. ‘Tiny Tim proves to be quite the rebel.’ Steph nodded solemnly, but mischief sparkled in her eyes. ‘It’s always the quiet souls, you know. "Still waters run deep."’ ‘They do indeed,’ he replied, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup. His tone was calm, but there was a steady warmth beneath it now. ‘Thank you, Miss Harper. For the coffee. And the report of Tiny Tim. I’ll inform the rest of the team of Mr. Tim’s absence. Perhaps he’ll turn up after Christmas.’ ‘After our little wellness corner has been cleared, I presume,’ Steph said, rising to her feet. ‘And in the meantime, I’ll try to hunt him down.’ ‘Poor Tiny Tim.’ Steph laughed and stole a cookie from the tray. ‘Sir! That’s slander!’ A.B. smiled faintly. ‘Don’t ‘sir’ me now, Stephanie. You just accused me of brooding and bribed me with coffee and cookies. Which you are stealing back right now, I see.’ She grinned, properly this time. ‘I deserved it. Besides, I gotta go. I have crickets to not install.’ She shot him a cheeky glance, slipping through the crack of the door. ‘If I hear any crickets inside the house, I'll know exactly who’s behind it,’ he called after her, making Steph laugh even harder. ‘Bite me, A.!’ She remarked, quickly shutting the door behind her before he could raise an eyebrow and cite protocol on biting staff members.
Her laugh echoed through the stairwell as Steph descended the stairs, dying out as she munched on her gingerbread cookie. Her cheeks radiated heat as her mind relived her own audacity—God, had she really just asked her hot boss to bite her? As if he ever would…
‘Girl,’ she breathed to herself. ‘Get yourself together. He could have been your dad.’
Indeed, he could have been. But somehow, after hours of shared discussion on poetry, literature, music and life in general, A.B. wasn’t just her boss anymore. She admired his soul, his dedication to his job. His quiet calm, his intelligence. His humor.
Steph heaved a sigh, her attention jolting to her current surroundings as she almost missed a step—her hands holding onto the railings just in time. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she murmured to herself. ‘The suits….’
Later that night, the hustle and bustle had quieted. The family had retreated to their private quarters, and most of the staff had made their way home—some just in time for a late Christmas Eve service.
Steph, having had no luck finding Timmy, was packing up her things in the curator’s office tucked into a quiet corner of the third floor—right next to Didier’s. A slightly odd place for staff offices, maybe, but she didn’t mind. The view was nice. And it meant she and Rosalind could bond with Didier over macarons.
She pulled her headphones from her bag, humming Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’. It was a small stroll to her apartment, so she did not mind working late—often giving Rosalind the room to leave a little early to take care of her sick mother.
She paused, her fingers brushing over a small green package tucked in her bag that morning. Her jaw tightened; warmth rushed to her cheeks. Months ago, she’d found the perfect gift for A.B. at an antique market—an early edition of Kenneth Grahame’s ‘The Wind in the Willows’, the vendor clueless to its real worth. She’d barely kept herself from bragging about the find. It was meant to be a quiet Christmas gesture—something thoughtful, something she knew no one else would think to give him. He had told her once that he loved the book as a kid, losing his own copy shortly after his parents died when he had just turned eleven. It seemed fitting. But now, with the moment finally here, doubt crept in. What if it was too much? Too personal? Too telling? Would he see it as her overstepping?
She fiddled with the handwritten note she had placed under the festive red bow. She had given her note more thought than she should, settling with a contemplative ‘For the one person in the house who never forgets the quiet ones. Merry Christmas, A.’ It was a nod to him, a silent acknowledgment to his presence.
‘Well, only one way to find out,’ Steph murmured to herself, tucking the small package under her arm and nodding to herself. She picked up her bag and coat, then gave the shared office one last glance before switching off the light. It was small, cluttered—but hers, in a way. She shut the door behind her with quiet finality.
‘Evening, Steph,’ Tripp Morgan—the President's quirky brother—greeted her from down the hallway. He grinned as he noticed the small package with the festive bow. ‘What do you got there?’ ‘Hey Tripp,’ Steph said, holding the gift closer to her chest. ‘It’s to appease the big boss, and I don’t mean your brother.’ She glanced at the bathrobes gathered in his arms. ‘Do you really need more? I saw you slipping a dozen of those into your room just yesterday.’
She didn’t usually deal with the family, but Tripp Morgan was a different story. As the black sheep of the family, he was as tormented as he was lonely. If anything, most of the staff pitied him—Steph being no exception.
Tripp shuffled on his feet. ‘Don’t tell your boss, then I won’t tell who played Santa on him.’ Steph laughed. ‘Fine by me. Goodnight, Tripp.’
She descended the usher’s staircase again, her pace slow as if she was still second-guessing her choice. Her fingers brushed over the package, steadying it, even though it was snug against her chest. The air around her was quiet—heavy, even.
Steph knocked on the door of A.B.’s office and listened intently. She waited, ear tilted to the wood. When no reply came, she exhaled softly—relieved. She opened the door just a crack, smiling to herself when she found it to be empty. His coat was still on the rack. Steph shook her head. Of course he was still here—a man like A.B. didn’t just leave. She tiptoed towards his desk—the tray gone—and set the package down gently.
‘Merry Christmas, A.’ she murmured to herself. Without another glance, she turned and slipped back out, descending toward the basement.
She was halfway when her phone rang. ‘Fuck,’ she muttered, fumbling through her bag as it slid off her shoulder. ‘Hi mom,’ she said, already bracing—her mother’s calls were never pleasant. ‘Stephanie Carmen Harper,’ her mother cried out. ‘Mass is about to start. Where are you? We saved you a seat!’ ‘I’m still at work,’ Steph sighed, rubbing her forehead. ‘Like I told you I would be.’
The other end of the line fell silent, and Steph listened to the vague murmurs of what appeared to be a large gathering. ‘Mom?’ Steph tried again as she swung her bag over her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I’m missing mass, but I told you I had to work late.’ ‘Well, Stephanie, it’s Christmas. We thought your boss could make an exception, just this once,’ her mother said. ‘He’s always so stern—’ ‘A.B. doesn’t ask me to do this, mother. I stay of my own volition,’ Steph declared. ‘Things need to get done. I have a job to do—and a responsibility to the country.’ ‘Of course,’ her mother agreed, though her voice was cold. ‘But can’t you slack this once? Christmas is family time. You know that. If you had a man to keep you in line—’ ‘Mother,’ Steph warned her, taking the last set of stairs to the basement. ‘I don’t need a man.’ ‘Of course you need a man,’ her mother countered in a tone that left no room for discussion. ‘You’re nearly forty, Stephanie. You’re not getting any younger. You can’t just leave the family legacy up to your brother—’ ‘Yeah? And where did that get him?’ Steph snapped, exhausted by the argument she’d rehearsed more times than she could count. ‘Is Ed—is he there?’ ‘Of course he is there, like he should!’ ‘Great,’ Steph muttered. ‘Good for him. I’m not there. And I won’t be.’ Her mother still had the audacity to gasp. ‘Stephanie! I’ve half a mind to call that boss of yours and demand of him to let you go home!’
Steph stepped into the corridor that led to the staff’s locker room and ultimately, the exit. ‘For the last time, my boss has nothing to do with it!’ she said, voice sharp with exasperation. ‘I can’t just leave—’ ‘The paintings can survive a day without you, Stephanie,’ her mother told her. ‘Your family can not.’ ‘Stop being so dramatic, mother,’ Steph replied. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner. Bye.’
Before her mother could argue, Steph ended the call and tossed her phone in her bag. A sigh tore out of her as she sank onto one of the benches, letting the weight of the call settle in her shoulders. Her fingers brushed over the strap over her bag.
It seemed each person got the gift they deserved—A.B. a first edition and a heartfelt note, her mother an argument and a dial tone. Steph looked up at the ceiling and let out a dry laugh. ‘Merry Christmas,’ she murmured to no one in particular. ‘If someone wants a different set of parents, I’ve got my mom on offer.’
Her voice echoed in the empty room. No one laughed back.
The White House, 25th of December ‘23
Just twenty-four hours later, Steph found herself ascending the familiar stairs to Rosalind’s and her office. She had no official reason to be at work on her day off—Rosalind traditionally worked on Christmas and Steph was scheduled for New Year’s—but she desperately needed to clear her mind. Coming straight from her mother’s house, where she’d endured an hour-long monologue about lonely, childless women in their forties and what was “wrong” with them, Steph needed a refuge. And where better than the White House, a fort on its own?
Steph’s brow creased. Her mother believed she was only interested in her job, but that couldn’t be further from the truth; she wanted to belong, to love someone who was right for her. With the right man, even having children was still an option, but finding him… An impossible task. Granted, falling for her boss hadn’t exactly made dating easier, but she hadn’t given up. Men just generally… sucked. Except A.B.
Steph crossed the landing outside A.B.’s office and paused. Soft jazz drifted through the closed door, the music wrapping around her like a warm and mellow shawl. She smiled to herself. He was unwinding after a long day—like he deserved. She could only imagine the chaos that had swallowed him today.
Suddenly, the door flung open, startling her. ‘Stephanie,’ A.B. greeted her with genuine surprise. ‘What are you doing here? Isn’t this your day off?’ ‘Hey A.,’ she said, relaxing. ‘How did the dinner go?’ ‘It went as expected,’ A.B. replied. ‘President Morgan complimented us for a great night, so I’m calling that a win.’ ‘But I bet you still have a few things you want to smooth out for next time,’ Steph teased. ‘Of course,’ he said, the corners of his mouth twitching in the faintest smile.
Steph rolled her eyes, drawing her winter coat closer around her. ‘Why am I not surprised at all?’ ‘Perhaps you know me too well,’ A.B. noted. ‘Which you proved last night.’ He regarded her with a soft warmth in his dark gaze. ‘Thank you. That was thoughtful.’ ‘You should pay attention to what you share with who, then,’ Steph quipped. ‘Before you know it, you get thoughtful gifts. That’s just awful, isn’t it?’ A.B. chuckled, a low and rich sound. ‘Why are you wasting your cheek at work tonight? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. But I was under the impression Rosalind did Christmas and you’re scheduled for New Year’s.’ Steph shrugged, looking down at her blue skirt, its stitched snowflakes catching the hallway light. It had felt festive this morning; now it just felt… too much. ‘Honestly?’ She asked quietly. ‘Family Christmas always comes with the usual guilt trip.’ Her gaze flickered towards the threshold of his office and back to his face. Her shoulders felt heavy. It was one thing to feel like a disappointment—another to say it out loud. ‘I’m…’ she began, before swallowing hard. Her gaze fell to the carpet. ‘It’s just… easier here.’
‘Steph.’
His tone was gentle, just uttering her name; yet the way he said it made her look up. The soft warmth in his eyes reached her like a balm against her own fragility. A.B. didn’t speak, and he didn’t need to—he understood what she couldn’t say. He stepped aside, wordless, and gestured for her to go in first.
Steph shrugged off her coat—A.B. already behind her to take it—and sat down in the chair in front of his desk. As Billie Holiday’s “This Year’s Kisses” drifted through the room, Steph watched A.B. hang her coat beside his and pour her a glass of bourbon. He set it down in front of her with quiet care, then took his seat across from her.
The silence stretched on, save for Billie’s soft croons. Steph drowned in A.B.’s dark gaze. His silver hair was slightly mussed—after it usually was after a long day—and his gaze was a little faraway, but his attire had remained impeccable.
‘You’re exhausted,’ she told him softly. He smiled. ‘That’s to be expected after a long day here, especially after Christmas.’ ‘No, this day was especially gruelling,’ Steph concluded. ‘You’re blinking more slowly than you usually do, which means you’re not tired, but properly exhausted.’ A.B. leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his own glass. ‘Nothing escapes your notice, does it Stephanie?’ ‘Never.’ She thought about it for a second. ‘Except Tiny Tim. I still have no idea where he is.’ ‘As does the rest of this household, save for the culprit,’ he noted dryly. ‘I checked the gingerbread house earlier today, but our Tim remains elusive…’ he faltered, and seemed to be debating something for a second. He cleared his throat. ‘I did find something else. The miniature version of myself, with a knife in his back.’ Steph’s hand stilled above her glass. ‘Excuse me, what?!’ She echoed. ‘A knife?! In your back?! That’s just sick!’ A.B. heaved a sigh, his gaze flickering to his bookcase. ‘I’ve just… left it there,’ he finally said. ‘To be honest with you, Stephanie—I was stunned.’ He paused again, glancing at his glass of bourbon. ‘I’ve seen a lot, but that caught me off guard.’
‘A.,’ Steph said, leaning forward, her hand resting against the desk. ‘I’m sorry, you did not deserve that.’ A.B. looked at her, something unreadable in his gaze. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last.
Steph inhaled sharply; her jaw tightened. ‘I’m going to find out who did this,’ she declared, rising to her feet. ‘And I am going to murder them myself. People have been shitty all day and this will not do—’ ‘Steph,’ A.B. protested softly. ‘Sit.’
‘A.,’ she started, but then thought better of it. She sat, eyes locked on him. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘There’s no need to burn down the house for me,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s probably just a prank.’ ‘If not for you, then for who?’ She said, picking up her glass and taking a sip. ‘You’re the reason this place still stands.’ ‘Don’t exaggerate now, Miss Harper,’ he reprimanded her, though his tone softened just for her. ‘Jasmine will take over the reins soon enough, and I’m sure this household will thrive.’ ‘That must be strange,’ Steph noted as she listened to Billie utter an unfamiliar, haunting melody. ‘To give my whole life to this place, only to have it end?’ He smiled wistfully. ‘I can tell you it certainly is.’ ‘A…’ she hesitated, searching his face. ‘It’s the way of life, Steph,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t feel bad for me. That’s not necessary.’ ‘I don’t,’ she offered. ‘I just wish I could give you a hug.’ ‘A hug,’ he echoed, as if the idea was foreign. ‘What does the protocol state about hugs?’ Steph asked, a faint smile tugging at her lips. ‘Physical intimacy of any kind is not permitted,’ A.B. said, watching her as she rose from her chair. ‘You should know that.’ ‘Well,’ she said in a thoughtful tone, circling his desk, her eyes twinkling, ‘fuck the protocol.’
There was no time to protest, Steph settled on the armrest of his chair and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close.
For a heartbeat, he remained still—then his hand came to rest at her back; fingers splayed against her creme woolen jumper, hesitant but steady. A breath slipped from her lips. Neither of them spoke. They just… stayed.
After a long moment, A.B. shifted and cleared his throat. It was not pulling away exactly, but enough that she understood. She let go without a word, and returned to her chair.
‘I appreciate that,’ he said quietly, adjusting his cuffs. ‘More than I can say.’ Her arms still tingled from where he’d held her. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘It’s not a crime to be human once in a while, A. You’re not a machine.’ ‘I’ve lived under the impression I’m a robot from planet Usher,’ he noted dryly, reaching for his tumblr of bourbon. Steph smirked. ‘Tripp’s an idiot who hoards bathrobes and thinks no one notices. I don’t think we should take anything he says or thinks remotely serious.’
He gave her an incredulous look.
‘Oh, come on, A,’ she said, laughing. ‘It’s the truth.’ ‘Our protocol states that we cannot say anything that reflects badly on the family,’ A.B. reminded her. ‘You should know that, too.’ ‘I know that,’ Steph replied, leaning back into her chair with a grin. She tilted her head. ‘But I was just stating facts here. Or are you going to tell your boss, A.?’ ‘I think the President might just agree with you,’ A.B. conceded. ‘Tripp Morgan is a colorful addition to the house.’ ‘Colorful indeed,’ Step agreed, picking up her drink and taking a sip.
Silence fell between them again, easy but charged. Steph watched him over the rim of her glass. His cologne—cedar, grounded and clean—clung faintly to her clothes. The scent drifted up her nose, enticing, familiar, soothing. She shuffled slightly in her seat—the snowflakes on her skirt gleaming defiantly.
Her thoughts wavered. Who would threaten him, of all people? This quiet, principled man, who simply did his job? Had it really been a joke, or had someone just issued a warning?
‘Do you have any idea who did it?’ She asked, her voice tentative. She leaned forward, her drink still in her hand. ‘The knife, I mean. What if…’ ‘I’d feel better believing it’s a harmless joke,’ A.B. replied in that thoughtful tone of his. ‘But in truth—anyone could have done it. Not least of them all, Didier.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Didier shouldn’t blame you for that wellness disaster,’ Steph said sharply. ‘We all know you tried to stop her.’ ‘Steph,’ he said gently. ‘You don’t have to defend me on this either. You cannot exonerate me on all accounts.’ She chuckled. ‘I’m not, A. You can be an asshole at times, so set on your goals that you forget—’ He smiled. ‘I’m still your boss, Miss Harper.’ Steph held up her hands, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. ‘Goodness, call the police. Is this against protocol too—telling the big boss the truth?!’ His eyes crinkled as his smile widened. ‘Have you ever read the protocol, Stephanie?’ ‘Of course I did,’ she said. ‘When I first started here, five years ago. I was terrified that my boss—very stern and very fond of his Bible—would creep up behind me and start quizzing me.’ She took a sip from her drink, smoothing her skirt absently. ‘And to be honest, I still consult it now and then. When I need clarity. Or, if I don’t have time to dig through all those dry pages—I just ask you.’ ‘That cheek of yours is on fire tonight,’ he noted, his eyes flickering toward the glimmering snowflakes scattered across her skirt. Then his eyes rose to meet hers again, softer now. ‘Tell me why your family has to do without your presence tonight. You said it was easier to be here.’
Steph bit on her lip. She hadn’t planned on baring her soul, but he’d shared something personal too. Maybe that made it fair.
‘I might sound ungrateful,’ she began, a frown tugging at her brow. She stared down at the tumbler in her hands. ‘I have a family. But having them around, especially during Christmas, does more harm than good. My mother won’t stop reminding me what a failure I am; almost forty, unmarried, childless.’ Her choice softened. ‘My brother and his wife will spend the night talking about their charming lives, just to make sure I know mine doesn’t compare.’ She smiled meekly. ‘And then my mother chimes back in. And the cycle starts again. I don’t even know why they call it Christmas dinner, they might as well rename it Bashing Stephanie Dinner. I despise it.’
A.B. didn’t speak right away. His eyes lingered on hers, unreadable. Then, something shifted—a crease formed between his brows. He set his glass aside, fingers tracing the rim in slow circles before settling on the stack of documents in front of him.
‘That sounds painful, and wholly undeserved,’ he said. ‘They’re blind, if they cannot see the woman you truly are.’ ‘What, the childless, unmarried spinster of nearly forty?’ She quipped. ‘Or the woman who helps run the Curator’s office purely out of spite half of the time?’ ‘No, the brilliant, driven professional that you are,’ he offered quietly, his expression earnest—and it made Steph’s breath hitch in her throat. A.B., not noticing how his words tugged at her heartstrings, went on. ‘Or the kind woman that makes everyone in this fort feel seen. You’re an asset here, and I daresay every place you decide to grace with your presence.’ ‘A…’ She protested. ‘You don’t have to defend me.’
His earlier statement echoed in her words, and they both smiled.
‘Well, if I can’t defend you, I can at least suggest you tell them to bite you,’ he said, his eyes twinkling as he relaxed in his seat. Steph laughed, her cheeks flushing. ‘Bite me, A.’ He huffed. ‘I do believe I’m on your side, Miss Harper.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you? Even when I’m going to accuse you of taking Timmy?’ A.B. raised one brow. ‘You’d exonerate me from every crime, yet accuse me of stealing Tiny Tim? That wounds me, Steph. Deeply. Especially coming from you.’
Steph allowed a silence to settle in between them, Billie Holiday now rendering her “Blue Moon” to them. ‘I love that song,’ Steph noted with a content sigh, closing her eyes and focussing on the soulful music drifting towards her. ‘You’re in luck, A. Billie makes me merciful—I may be bribed.’ ‘Bribed…’ He echoed. ‘Amuse me.’ She drained her bourbon and regarded him over the rim of her glass. ‘You could tell me what A.B. stands for.’ ‘You could have asked Rosalind,’ A.B. said mildly. ‘Or Angie. Or anyone who’s been here longer than five minutes.’ Steph stilled, her gaze meeting him over the rim of her glass. ‘But I’m asking you.’
A.B. didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t shift much—not visibly—but his eyes had softened, and there was a quiet exhale through his nose. He looked down for a second, then back at her.
‘Steph… You don’t give up, do you?’ he said, voice low, almost fond. ‘Not when I want to know something,’ Steph replied, chin lifting slightly in that defiance she wore so well. ‘If you don’t tell me, I’m going to guess. Make your choice.’
He paused, watched her for another moment. ‘Augustus,’ he then finally said. ‘Augustus Benedict Wynter.’ He watched her as his name settled in between them—heavy, personal. ‘If you breathe as much as a word of that to anyone, I’ll have to resign tonight.’ A cheeky smile tugged on her features. ‘Now, we wouldn’t want that, Augustus Benedict Wynter.’ He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but there was no real irritation behind the gesture—only a gentle, enduring exasperation. She toyed with her empty glass in her hands. Her voice softened. ‘It’s… regal. I quite like it.’ His tone was edged with disbelief and his brow rose. ‘You do?’ Steph met his gaze, soft and quiet. ‘It suits you. It’s proper, a little old-fashioned, and secretly kind underneath all the formalities.’ A.B. blinked—slowly—but said nothing.
‘I’ll stick with A., though,’ she added with a faint smile. ‘I can’t have you recite protocol to me in the hallway every time I dare to say Augustus.’ A low, genuine chuckle escaped him. ‘You’re incorrigible, Steph. Why can you not use A.B., like every other sensible person in this house?’ ‘Are they sensible though?’ Steph countered with a laugh. ‘Sometimes I feel as if we’re the only two actual professionals left standing.’
As if summoned by her statement, a distant bang echoed through the house—sharp enough to rattle his door.
A.B. sighed, setting aside his glass with care. ‘Duty calls,’ he stated, rising from his chair. ‘It’s my day off,’ Steph said, already on her feet. ‘But if your protocol can survive the scandal of the dainty snowflakes on my skirt, I’m coming with you.’
He studied her for a moment. Though his posture remained composed, something in his expression lingered. 'Your call,’ he murmured as she smoothed the lapels of his jacket with precise fingers. ‘You’re not officially here, so perhaps the protocol can survive your attire’s scandalous embellishments.’ Steph grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief. ‘I’ll write an addendum.’ A.B. smiled at that—quietly, fondly, with just the faintest edge of exasperation—and held the door open for her. As Steph passed him, something unspoken settled between them, pulling at their restraint. Warmth. Understanding. Admiration.
‘Steph?’ he said, just before she crossed the threshold into the corridor. ‘August?’ She replied in turn, her gaze flicking up to meet his. He hesitated, the hallway light softening the sharper edges of his face. ‘Thank you,’ he finally said. ‘For being here tonight.’ Her heart skipped, her smile soft and sure. ‘Always.’
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