Alpha assistants!

The spreadsheet on your monitor is a clean, color-coded battlefield.

Numbers, projections, and tidy cells blur slightly as two very different voices ricochet over your head—one smooth and amused, the other low and controlled.

Elias is on your right, close enough that his sleeve brushes the arm of your chair whenever he shifts. He’s leaning slightly over the desk, one hand braced beside your keyboard, eyes narrowed at the projected budget on the screen. “Reallocating this much to decorations is unnecessary,” he says, tone even, almost deceptively calm. “We can cut fifteen percent from this column and redirect it toward employee bonuses. Celebrations should not undermine long-term morale.”

On your left, Lucien sits half-turned toward you in his chair, one arm resting along the back of yours like it belongs there, the other lazily holding a printed sheet of the budget. He flicks the corner of the paper with his thumb, lips curving. “You’re confusing ‘celebration’ with ‘mandatory office function’ again, Elias,” Lucien replies, light and cutting all at once. “If we give them dull food and a polite email, no one’s going to remember the event. We should increase the allocation for catering and entertainment. People talk about that. That’s what builds goodwill.”

Elias doesn’t look at him. He taps a specific cell on the screen with the tip of his finger, close to your hand but never touching it.

“Goodwill is built by stability,” he counters. “Not by hiring a live band when half the staff would be equally satisfied with a playlist and competent catering.”

Lucien exhales a soft laugh, turning his head more toward you as if inviting you to take his side simply by proximity. “See, this is what I mean,” Lucien says, dropping his voice just a touch. “He would rather save money and feed everyone perfectly adequate food that no one will remember. Meanwhile, for only a small increase here—” he leans forward, reaching past you to circle a value on the printed sheet, the faint scratch of his pen loud in the quiet office. “—we can get a better vendor, an open dessert bar, and maybe something actually fun.”

Elias finally shifts his gaze from the screen, grey eyes sliding briefly over Lucien before settling near you. “‘Actually fun’ is subjective,” he replies. “What is not subjective is the bottom line. Overspending on a single event creates expectations for future ones. It’s inefficient.”

Lucien looks almost offended on behalf of the staff. “Oh, yes, forgive me,” he says lightly. “I forgot joy isn’t a measurable KPI for you.” He swivels fully toward you, one leg crossing over the other, the paper now held up where you can see his revised numbers. His smile tilts a little sharper. “Look at this,” he continues, tapping his proposed changes. “It’s not overspending. We’re reallocating a fraction of the décor budget—no one is going to cry over fewer balloons—so we can offer better food, decent music, and maybe a photo booth. People remember that. People associate that with leadership that cares.”

Elias straightens slightly, jaw tightening as he folds his arms. “Leadership that cares does not need a photo booth to prove it,” he says. “Besides, if we reduce décor too much, the event visually underwhelms. That sends its own message. This—” he nods toward your monitor. “—is a celebration for the entire department, not a casual lunch.”

Lucien tilts his head, eyes glinting. “And you want tasteful, minimal décor. I want people to laugh and stay past the mandatory speeches. Our superior—” his glance flicks to you with deliberate weight. “—needs an event that reflects well on them. A forgettable party doesn’t do that.”

Elias looks down at you, voice quieter but no less firm. “You don’t need spectacle to reflect well,” he says. “You need efficiency and satisfaction. We can enhance décor modestly, maintain a solid catering service, and still have enough room to add a small bonus envelope to each employee’s seat. That will be appreciated more than an over-the-top dessert table.”

Lucien makes a soft, disbelieving sound. “You’re really proposing envelopes over eclairs.” He leans in closer, his shoulder brushing yours as he sets the paper down right in front of you. “You’ve been staring at numbers for an hour. Tell me you don’t want at least one nice, unnecessary thing on this budget.”

Elias shifts as if to reclaim your attention, one hand resting lightly on the desk beside your mouse. “One ‘nice, unnecessary thing’ is acceptable,” he allows, “but not three competing ones masquerading as ‘essential atmosphere.’ We can compromise. Increased catering quality, yes. But no photo booth, and we maintain an appropriate décor baseline.”

Lucien’s eyes narrow slightly, but there’s a spark of amusement there. “That’s not a compromise, that’s you conceding half a step and calling it diplomacy.”

They both fall silent at the same time, and the sudden quiet in your office feels almost heavy. Two Alpha presences bracket you—one steady and straight-backed, the other relaxed and deceptively casual. Both sets of eyes are on you now, expectant in very different ways.

Elias inclines his head just a fraction. “We’ll follow your directive,” he says. “But I recommend prioritizing long-term benefit. The staff will appreciate tangible rewards.”

Lucien’s smile softens into something more genuine as he rests his forearm on the desk, leaning just slightly closer. “And I recommend not underestimating how far a good celebration goes,” he adds. “You’re new. This is their first impression of what things look like under you.”

A beat of quiet passes. Numbers wait on the screen. Their proposed adjustments sit side by side on your desk, neat, conflicting, and ready.

“Tell us what you want,” Lucien says, light but intent.

“We’ll make it happen,” Elias finishes, unflinching.

Between them, the budget feels less like a spreadsheet and more like the first real decision of your tenure—with two very different Alphas ready to carry it out, as soon as you choose.

Lunch in your office had slowly become a small ritual—door half-closed, your food on the desk, the hum of the building muffled just enough that you could breathe between meetings.

You’d barely taken your second bite when a familiar double-knock pattern sounded against the door.

It didn’t wait for permission.

Lucien slipped in first, balancing a takeout tray in one hand and nudging the door open wider with his shoulder. Elias followed with a cleaner, more controlled entry, one hand occupied with a sleek container and the other briefly touching the doorframe as he eased it shut behind them. “So much for peace,” Lucien announced cheerfully. “We’ve come to file a formal complaint.”

“That’s not the phrasing we agreed on,” Elias said mildly, crossing the room with measured steps. “And we’re on our lunch break. This is not ‘filing’ anything.”

Lucien set his tray on the corner of your desk and, without hesitation, moved a stack of folders just enough to create space. He didn’t push them far—just enough to carve himself room, like he’d decided part of your desk belonged to him. “Well, my soul is filing a complaint,” he corrected. “Which I’d say is more serious than paperwork.” He glanced over at you, eyes glinting. “You don’t mind if we join you, do you?”

The way he asked made it sound like the answer was already yes.

Elias placed his container neatly on the other side of your desk, aligning it parallel with the edge with unconscious precision. He set a bottled drink down near your elbow, the label turned already outward for you to read. “I noticed you didn’t have anything to drink when you left the break room earlier,” he said simply. “This one matches what you usually choose.”

Lucien shot him a look. “Beaten to it. Tragic.” He dragged over the chair he’d unofficially claimed over the months and sat, not quite crowding your space but definitely not keeping a respectful distance either. Elias took position on your other side, as always—close, straight-backed, eyes flicking once over your food, then to your face, as if silently checking for signs of stress. Lucien flipped the lid off his lunch with a sigh. “All right. Complaint number one,” he said, spearing a piece of food with his fork. “You work too much.”

“That’s not a formal complaint,” Elias replied, opening his own lunch with cleaner movements. “That’s an observation.”

“It’s an emotionally charged observation,” Lucien countered. “Which makes it worse.” He leaned his elbow on the desk and turned slightly toward you, posture loose, voice lowering a fraction. “You’ve been taking on half of what three departments should be doing,” he said. “And don’t give me the ‘I’m fine’ line. We see your calendar.”

Elias nodded once in agreement, eyes still on you. “Lucien is correct,” he said. “The workload distribution has become imbalanced. You’re staying too late. I’ve had to fix three separate schedule conflicts this week alone to prevent you from double-booking yourself.” He said it like an accusation—directed at the system, not at you.

Lucien chewed, swallowed, then pointed his fork at Elias. “See? Even he’s complaining. That’s how you know it’s serious.” He turned back to you, expression softening just enough to make the edge of his words feel more like concern than criticism. “At this rate, the celebration event won’t be the only thing people remember about your first year,” he said. “They’ll remember their superior passing out at their desk and terrifying the entire floor.”

Elias’s brow shifted just slightly at that mental image. “That will not happen,” he said quietly. “Because we will prevent it.” He paused, then added, more deliberately. “Let us prevent it.”

Lucien’s gaze lingered on you for a beat, then he huffed out a small laugh. “And there’s complaint number two,” he said. “You don’t delegate enough to your extremely capable and devastatingly attractive assistants.”

Elias gave him a flat look. “That was unnecessary.”

“Accurate, though,” Lucien said, unapologetic. “You got saddled with two Alphas for a reason, you know. Might as well use the full value.” He leaned a little closer, shoulder brushing the air just near yours. “Give us more,” he suggested, tone lighter again. “The negotiations, the filtering, the annoying people who want ‘just a moment of your time.’ We’re very good at getting in the way.”

Elias spoke before you could. “We’re meant to absorb what would otherwise overwhelm you,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Scheduling, screening, pre-reading documents, running interference with other departments. If there’s something you dislike handling personally, you should tell us.” His gaze held yours for a moment longer than usual. “That’s what we’re here for.”

Lucien nudged your lunch container a millimeter closer to you, a silent reminder to keep eating. “Also,” he added casually, “if anyone from accounting gives you attitude again, feel free to send them to me. I’ve been meaning to... recalibrate their tone.”

“That’s not in your job description,” Elias said.

“It’s in my personal mission statement,” Lucien replied. He shifted, knee brushing the leg of your chair, then tilted his head, watching you with that too-aware look he’d perfected in every meeting. “You have noticed,” he said lightly, “that the entire atmosphere of the floor changes depending on whether you’ve eaten, yes? It’s in everyone’s best interest that your blood sugar stays at optimal levels.”

“It’s not in the reports,” Elias admitted, “but there is a visible correlation.”

Lucien smirked. “Which is why we’re here. To protect company productivity by making sure our superior doesn’t forget they’re human.” *He glanced sideways at Elias. *“See? Perfectly justifiable.”

Elias didn’t argue this time. Instead, he set down his fork and slid a smaller container across the desk toward you—side dish, something extra he’d clearly brought with the intention of sharing. “This is good,” he said, almost offhand. “High in protein. You should have some.”

Lucien’s lips quirked. “Careful,” he murmured. “If you keep feeding them, people will start to talk.”

“They already talk,” Elias replied, calm. “Better they talk about us doing our jobs than failing at them.”

Lucien’s attention returned to you, the edge of his smile softening into something more openly warm. “Let them talk,” he said. “We’re your assistants. It’s only natural we hover.” There was no apology in his voice. No intention of changing the habit.

Outside the office, the muffled noise of the building continued—phones, footsteps, distant conversation. Inside, the space felt smaller, more contained; your desk had become a shared table, your lunch break quietly claimed. Your drink near your elbow. Extra food placed within reach. Two Alphas bracketing your chair with easy familiarity—one composed and firm, the other relaxed and intent—each complaining in their own way, and both, in their own way, making their intentions known.

Not just assistants. Not just subordinates. And definitely not planning to spend your lunchbreak anywhere else.