Resolutions 16: Promotion

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

Tap. Buzz. Green to amber. 

Tap. Buzz. Amber to green. 

It was 3:17 p.m., and Graham’s diligence in completing his Monday chores had earned him a few precious minutes of downtime between scheduled activities. The apartment was still but not quiet, and the lights remained locked at Max’s preferred “Domestic Mid-Afternoon” level: bright enough for task performance but sufficiently soft to discourage reflection. 

Graham sat on the edge of the sofa, his back straight but not tense, his feet planted flat and equidistant on the floor. His sweatpants were pushed down to mid thigh, and he was bare above the waist, though he hadn’t consciously removed his shirt. He stared, unblinking, at the object of his attention: the rigid Shield encasing his pelvis. 

It was high gloss, hard, and seamless, graphite black with mirrored undertones. Subtle grooves ran along the edges, making it look like something engineered for spaceflight, not everyday wear. Tiny indicator lights blinked across the center panel—green and amber, broken by brief flashes of blue. 

Graham’s hand moved in rhythm. 

Tap. 

A small buzz pulsed into his abdomen. One of the lights shifted from amber to green. 

Tap. Buzz. Green to amber. 

Tap. Buzz. 

A long, mindless pause, and then another tap. 

Graham’s action wasn’t conscious; it was ritual, like a thumb on a rosary or a soldier polishing boots that didn’t need polishing. 

Across the room, the wall-mounted TV came to life without command. 

“Welcome to ArcturusVision TV,” announced a silky, androgynous voice as the brand logo appeared. Graham briefly glanced up between taps, only to return his blank focus to the hunk of metal encasing his groin. He barely registered the programs playing in the background. 

Profiles in Alignment, a grayscale montage of domestic supports smiling next to their imposing partners, accompanied by captions like, “I stopped asking him questions and started awaiting his answers.” 

Meals that Say I’m Proud to Serve Him, a cooking tutorial demonstrating a three-step plating technique for grilled halibut. The instructor’s tone was cheerful but unapologetically corrective. “Remember, presentation matters. You’re not just feeding him. You’re supporting his mission. And our mission.” 

Shield Maintenance Tips, featuring an animated robot in a bowtie scrubbing a glowing Shield with a microfiber cloth. The narration intoned, “Daily maintenance removes fingerprints, both literal and metaphorical.” 

Graham didn’t look up. His hand kept tapping. 

Buzz. Amber. 

Tap. Buzz. Green. 

The lock turned. The front door swung open with a clean, mechanical click. Tobias entered, framed briefly by the hallway light behind him like a man stepping out of a promotional video. Even though it was the end of the workday, his new suit was immaculate. Charcoal gray, sharply cut and close fitting, it looked like he’d just put it on. Its lapels were angular and aggressive, and its silhouette exaggerated Tobias’ already palpable masculinity. The fabric had a slight sheen, almost military in its harshness, and the collar framed Tobias’ neck like an insignia. 

Graham’s eyes locked onto the outline beneath Tobias’ trousers and the unmistakable contour of his husband’s Shield. It bulged assertively, more prominently than it had before. The suggestion of its presence no longer suppressed, it accentuated. 

Tobias walked with his head level and his shoulders square. No suitcase, no phone in hand, no wasted movements. Graham jerked his hand away from his own Shield. His fingers hovered mid air before he seemed to notice it, then lowered it slowly. Shame prickled along his arms. He pulled his sweatpants up with stiff fingers, not even looking down. 

Tobias looked at Graham the way the executive in the corner office might look at an intern. 

“I got the promotion,” he said as he closed the door behind him. 

Max stepped forward from its alcove, arms rising. Its hands clapped slowly, evenly, with soft, mechanical precision. Clap. Pause. Clap. A perfect cadence. 

Graham blinked. His first instinct was to stand, close the space between them, throw his arms around Tobias, and whisper something dumb and sincere. But just as he started to move, the Shield buzzed, not loudly, but firmly. A low, steady pulse bloomed in his groin and spread outward, dissolving his momentum. He nodded instead, standing halfway but never leaving the couch’s edge. 

“Should we schedule something?” he asked. “A couples’ efficiency bonding night? A joint meal prep session?” 

The words tumbled out too fast like he was offering bullet points in a meeting. His eyes were hopeful but vacant. 

Tobias had already turned, unbuttoning his collar and loosening his tie. 

“I’ll be attending a lot of Leadership Fraternity retreats,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s part of the promotion.” 

Graham furrowed his brow. “Retreats?” 

Max stepped forward. “The Leadership Fraternity is a premium tier alignment network. ArcturusVision has partnered with Mr. Tobias’ company to provide mentoring for their senior leaders. It includes optimized household providers focused on strategic dominance, maximized masculinity, and operational sovereignty.” 

Tobias let his tie hang loose around his collar and moved to the bedroom without a second glance. Graham sat rigid on the edge of the sofa, feeling the words rise in his throat before he could stop them. His unaligned, unscheduled words evaded the Shield’s influence and escaped his lips in a stutter. 

“Wait. What about me? What about us?” 

The room seemed to freeze. Max’s head turned fractionally toward him. Its indicator lights along the side of its neck pulsed red for the briefest second. A sharp buzz shot through Graham’s Shield, slicing into his gut. He gasped softly and blinked a few times as the sudden flood of synthetic calm smothered the panic trying to ignite inside him. 

A memory from earlier—something on the TV, maybe—looped in his mind. 

I stopped asking him questions and started awaiting his answers. 

Tobias called out from the bedroom, addressing Max with a level, detached voice. 

“Arrange some social functions for him. Keep him occupied.” 

“Noted,” Max said without hesitation. “There are three other domestic supports within the immediate service area. I will integrate Mr. Graham into their social rotation.” 

Another buzz, this one warm and affirming. Graham’s shoulders dropped. His breathing slowed. The frantic edge dulled into something pliant. He managed a small smile, weak and flickering like a faulty neon bulb. 

“That sounds… reasonable,” he murmured. 

Tobias returned a moment later, his jacket removed and sleeves rolled up with immaculate precision. He extended his hand to Graham. The handshake was firm and businesslike. 

“You’re doing great, G.” 

Graham stood clumsily, his palm sliding into Tobias’. The touch wasn’t warm, or even friendly. It felt polished. Plastic. The faint vibration of the Shields between them registered in the bones of Graham’s hand. Still, he held on longer than necessary, searching Tobias’ face for something. 

Anything. 

“I thought,” Graham started softly. “Maybe a kiss?” 

Before Tobias could react, Max’s voice interjected: “Handshakes promote mutual respect and professional parity. Kissing introduces emotional destabilization.” 

Buzz. 

The words on the tip of Graham’s tongue dissolved. He simply nodded, retracting his hand. 

“Of course,” he said. 

Of course. 

Tobias retreated into his office without another word. He left the door ajar by exactly seven degrees, which was Max’s recommended aperture for household partners in cooldown mode. AVTV, almost sensing the new tempo of the household, shifted automatically to its “Executive Wind Down” setting. Ambient piano music filtered through the speakers, blending with the low hum of the heater. 

Max turned toward Graham, its posture perfectly neutral. “Dinner preparation begins now. Your schedule has been updated.” 

Graham nodded. 

Without pause or thought, he turned toward the kitchen, his feet moving with a stiff, oddly elegant grace. Every step was executed with unconscious efficiency. 

He opened the fridge. Inside, a vacuum-sealed steak, marbled to corporate standards, awaited him. Next to it, pre-chopped greens lined up in gradient shades of dark to light, each bag labeled by Max’s hand in clean, perfect script. 

Graham stared at the contents for a long moment, the hum of the fridge and the slow pulse of his Shield forming a lullaby around him. 

He whispered it without prompting, without realization: 

“Thank you for the opportunity to serve.” 

And then, silently, he began to prepare the meal. 

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