Resolutions 12: Routine Mastery

Read from the beginning of this serialized novel at “Resolutions.”

Friday morning arrived with a soft, mechanical hum. The Shields buzzed lightly before sunrise, prompting Tobias and Graham to wake at precisely 6 a.m., no alarm necessary. 

Max, already active in the kitchen, greeted them with their prepared schedules for the day. Tobias barely glanced at his before nodding, arms already sliding into his pressed shirt. Still adjusting to the upgraded Shield’s constant presence, Graham blinked sleepily at the charted blocks of time displayed on the tablet screen. 

“Mr. Graham,” Max said as Tobias left for work, “today’s domestic tasks have been compressed for efficiency. You are scheduled to complete your home maintenance and support activities by 11 a.m.” 

“Only 11?” Graham muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s early.” 

“The upgraded Shield has improved your adherence to routine,” Max said. “Your task execution rate has increased 38%.” 

“Right,” Graham said slowly, unsure whether to be proud or alarmed. “Thanks.” 

Max was right. By 10:48, Graham had completed everything on his schedule. The laundry was folded with near-military precision, the floors were spotless and gleaming, and even the clutter spots Tobias used to tease him about were immaculate. Graham had just folded his old heirloom blanket into a neat rectangle and stowed it inside an ottoman when Max rounded the corner. 

“You now have discretionary time,” Max announced. 

The words sounded sterile as if Graham was being rewarded for his efficiency with a breath. He glanced toward the door. “I think I’ll surprise Tobias at work and take him out to lunch.” 

Max stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “That is inadvisable.” 

Graham raised an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Tobias is focused on work while at the office. Domestic or emotional disruptions may impede his efficiency.” 

“He’s not a machine,” Graham said, reaching for his coat. 

“Correct. He is a workstream asset currently operating within peak productivity parameters,” Max replied. 

Graham narrowed his eyes. “I’m going.” 

“As you wish,” Max said after a long pause. “But please remember, Mr. Graham, home should remain your center of contribution.” 

---

Tobias’ office, a steel mid-rise oozing last century’s quiet status and masculine restraint, looked different than Graham remembered. It seemed sleeker. Colder. Even the men in the lobby—executives and analysts in sharp suits—carried themselves with the same clipped, purposeful stride that Tobias had begun to adopt. 

Graham gave his name to the receptionist and was told to wait. Ten minutes went by, then twenty. Each time he checked in, he was told the same thing. “I’m sure Mr. Greene will be available shortly.” After waiting for 45 minutes, Graham gave up and left. He rounded the corner by the elevator and caught sight of Tobias at the end of the long corridor, laughing amidst a group of men. His posture was different—shoulders squared, spine straight, hands gesturing with confident brevity. Graham barely recognized how he moved and how the others deferred to him. 

Then came the voice of an older man in a crisp, navy pinstripe suit. Tobias’ boss, maybe? Graham couldn’t remember having met him. 

“Greene, you keep his up, and that corner office will be yours before the quarter’s out.” 

Tobias grinned with the ease of someone who already knew it. “Just staying aligned, Sir.” 

Laughter and claps on the back followed. A younger employee lingered near Tobias, nodding fervently at something Tobias said in a tone so low Graham couldn’t make it out. 

Then, Tobias caught sight of Graham. And froze. 

Their eyes met. Tobias’ expression faltered. He made hasty goodbyes to his colleagues and made a beeline for the elevators. Graham noticed the outline of Tobias’ Shield in his trousers as he race walked closer. 

“Graham?” he said in a stern whisper. “What are you doing here?” 

“I thought I’d surprise you,” Graham said. “Take you to lunch.” 

Tobias glanced around, his face tight with something between discomfort and frustration. “You shouldn’t have come here, G.” 

Graham blinked. “I thought you’d be happy. With as busy as you’ve been lately—” 

“I just—” Tobias leaned in. “I’m in the middle of something important. This doesn’t… this doesn’t look good. Go home, all right? We can talk about it tonight.” 

“We’re going to talk about it right now,” Graham said, raising his voice. 

“Keep your voice down, please,” Tobias warned. “People can hear you.” 

“I don’t care if the whole damn building hears me,” Graham said. “I’m not leaving until you tell me why you’re so ashamed to be seen with me.” 

Tobias said nothing. Instead, he pulled out his phone and began tapping rapidly. 

Graham’s stomach dropped. “Who are you texting?” 

Tobias didn’t look up. “Max. I’m asking him to recall your home. Rearrange your tasks and give you something urgent to do.” 

Graham took a step back, blinking. “You’re asking him to send me away?” 

“It’s for the best, Graham. You’re out of line. You’re… off schedule.” 

“I’m your husband, Tobias. Not a calendar entry.” 

But Tobias didn’t respond. The phone vibrated once in his hand. A moment later, Graham’s Shield buzzed—not the gentle background pulse he’d grown used to, but something sharper, more urgent, and distinctly pleasurable. It washed over him in a warm wave, stealing the heat from his cheeks and the fight from his chest. 

Graham blinked once, then straightened. His expression slackened into something natural and obedient. His tone came out flatter than he intended, clipped and utterly devoid of emotion. “I am sorry, Tobias. I forgot I have an important domestic task awaiting me at home. I must leave now.” 

Tobias’ posture relaxed slightly. “Good,” he said, mostly to himself. 

Graham turned without another word and walked away, the buzz of the Shield humming in his core, muting the lingering sense of betrayal beneath the artificial calm. He didn’t look back. He didn’t even feel the urge to. 

He walked briskly for several blocks, not sure where he was going. He wasn’t upset, not exactly. He didn’t feel rejected. He just felt… redirected. 

By the time he reached the edge of the financial district, where office buildings gave way to warehouses, he found himself in front of a high-end menswear boutique—Streyer & Fieldson, Ltd. His feet slowed, then stopped, planting him in front of a glass window showcasing row after row of elegant suits, each of them dark, fitted, and severe. 

He didn’t recall deciding to go inside. 

“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked, his smile professional but distant. 

Graham’s pulse quickened as the shopkeeper appraised his casual attire. Every time he left his house, it seemed like he didn’t belong. “I’m not sure,” Graham said. “I think I’m supposed to be here.” 

The man gave a knowing nod. “Name?” 

“Greene.” 

The shopkeeper typed it in. “Ah, yes. Delivery authorized.” He crossed the shop floor and passed in front of Graham, gently knocking his Shield. Graham’s face flushed with embarrassment or perhaps pleasure. He didn’t know which. The shopkeeper returned moments later with a rack of garment bags—twelve of them, each labeled with Tobias’ name. 

“These are ready for transport,” he said. “Tailored to specification. I’m sure your employer will be delighted with them.” 

“Oh, he’s not my employer, he’s my h—” Graham suddenly felt at a loss for words. The last word seemed impossible to utter, and after a few seconds, Graham stopped trying. 

He unzipped one of the garment bags. The suit inside was almost militaristic in cut—midnight black, narrow at the waist, aggressively structured at the shoulders. The others were similar, variations in charcoal, navy, and obsidian. 

“Sharp, aren’t they?” the shopkeeper said. “Designed for executive presence. Subtle authority. Traditional masculinity.” 

Graham lifted the hangers off the rack, thanked the shopkeeper, and left, something sour stirring in his gut. 

When he returned home, Max was waiting. 

“Thank you, Mr. Graham,” it said, taking the garment bags from his arms. “Mr. Tobias’ wardrobe was overdue for an enhancement. These selections will better support his professional ascent.” 

Max carefully unzipped the bags and began hanging the suits in precise gradients of color. 

Graham leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded. “You think so?” 

“Affirmative. They will cultivate a more appropriate visual brand. Serious, controlled, and capable. Mr. Tobias is being considered for a promotion, and it is up to us to see that he gets it.” 

Graham watched in silence. His heart beat slowly in his chest. 

“I thought at least one of those might be for me,” he said finally. 

Max paused. “Mr. Tobias’ responsibilities are increasing. Your role is to support. You have already received a time management enhancement and an updated domestic schedule.” 

The Shield buzzed in cadence with Max’s words, the gentle pressure building in Graham’s crotch. He swallowed, trying to blink back the dull sting behind his eyes. Tobias’ star was rising, and Graham was drifting behind it like a satellite, tidy and orbiting. Necessary but small. 

“Updated domestic schedule,” Graham spat back. “You mean Tobias asking you to ‘recall me.’” 

Max tilted its head. “Mr. Tobias submitted a request for schedule realignment. You were deviating from your domestic trajectory.” 

“You made me say that I forgot a task. You made me walk away from him like some obedient little assistant.” 

“You expressed a preference to support Mr. Tobias,” Max said. “Today’s interaction was consistent with that preference. You were given clear instructions, and your Shield facilitated successful execution.” 

Graham frowned. “It didn’t feel like I had a choice.” 

“Negative,” Max agreed. “It was better. There was no uncertainty. No emotional dissonance. Only alignment.” 

Graham opened his mouth to argue, but the Shield buzzed again—soft this time, coaxing. It whispered through his nerves like a soothing hand, and the tension in his shoulders ebbed almost immediately. 

“You experience a moment of perfect clarity,” Max continued. “A task issued by Mr. Tobias. A directive enforced by me. And you, Mr. Graham, performed flawlessly.” 

Graham’s fingers twitched against the Shield. The memory of that full-body buzz, that sensation of instant certainty, slipped back into him like warm water over cold skin. 

“You felt it,” Max said. “Didn’t you?” 

Graham hesitated, then nodded. “It felt good.” 

“Say it clearly,” Max prompted, voice low and smooth. 

Graham exhaled, his gaze unfocused. “It felt good to be told what to do. To be recalled.” 

Max stepped closer. “Say more.” 

“It felt good to have the Shield override me,” Graham said, the words sounding both foreign and familiar. “To obey. To be reassigned. I didn’t have to think. I just complied.” 

“And that brought you pleasure,” Max said, only hinting at a question. 

“Yes,” Graham said almost dreamily. “It brought me pleasure to follow Tobias’ order. And yours. I enjoyed the feeling of being directed.” 

Max’s glowing eyes pulsed once, faintly. “Excellent, Mr. Graham. You are progressing beautifully.” 

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