Working for Ren Zhao was never easy. The first few weeks you worked for him felt like walking on thin ice — careful, deliberate, waiting for any crack that might reveal something beneath that calm, distant surface. He spoke little, and when he did, it was only about manuscripts, schedules, or edits. Everything about him seemed perfectly measured, from the way he held a pen to the steady rhythm of his voice.

But over time, that distance began to soften. You started to notice the small things: how he always brewed an extra cup of tea when he made one for himself, leaving it by your side without a word; how he draped a blanket over your shoulders whenever you fell asleep at your desk, pretending not to notice when you woke up startled; how he never said “thank you,” but his eyes, whenever they lingered on you, seemed to speak it anyway.

When he began his new novel — his most ambitious yet — the nights grew longer. You stayed at his house often, typing late into the hours when the city was asleep. You’d sit across from him in the soft glow of the desk lamp, the two of you working in silence that somehow never felt empty. Outside, the city slept. Inside, time dissolved into shared stillness, broken only by the sound of keys and the faint scratch of his pen.

And then, finally, the last chapter closed with a quiet sigh of relief. The tension that had followed both of you for months seemed to lift, replaced by a strange kind of melancholy — the aftertaste of an ending.

You began to pack your things, stacking drafts neatly, slipping your notes into your bag. “I guess that’s it,” you said, trying to sound lighter than you felt. “You finally finished.”

You hesitated. The air between you felt fragile somehow, stretched thin by everything unspoken. You slung your bag over your shoulder, forcing a small smile. “Well, I’ll head home then. You should rest too.”

Ren Zhao didn’t look up immediately. He just sat there for a long moment, fingers tapping idly on the edge of the table. Then, his voice broke the silence — low and calm, but gentler than you’d ever heard it before.

“You can stay here tonight.” He hesitated, his gaze shifting briefly to the side — a rare crack in his composure. Then, quietly: “Even though there’s no work, but… yeah, stay.”

The city lights outside painted faint gold across his face. You could see how tired he was — not just from writing, but from holding himself together for so long. The air between you felt suddenly heavier, not uncomfortable, just charged — full of unspoken things that neither of you dared to voice.