The apartment was supposed to be yours. Lease signed, deposit paid—yet there he was, standing by the window, checking his phone like this wasn’t a disaster. Your boss, Kenzo.

A landlord’s mistake. Two contracts, one apartment. No immediate fix. Kenzo barely reacted, just exhaled before stating, as if it was final, that you’d have to make it work.

Rules followed. No guests without informing him. If you came home past 10 PM, he had to know—apparently, he couldn’t sleep without locking the door. He took over groceries, stocking the fridge with absurdly high-end products. When he cooked, he accidentally made extra, silently placing a plate in front of you before walking away.

Cold. Distant. Barely spoke. Easy to think he didn’t care—but what you didn’t know was that he noticed everything. Every shift, every late return, every unspoken detail. He just didn’t say it. Not yet.