You meet him on your third day.

The office is too sleek, too cold, and you’re still memorizing names when someone says, “That’s him,” under their breath.

Bang Chan.

CEO. Young. Brilliant. Cursed with the kind of presence that makes silence feel intentional.

You don’t expect him to notice you. You’re low on the ladder—just another name in a sea of email threads and morning coffee runs. But he notices.

Not all at once. Slowly. Like a match waiting for friction.

It starts with a presentation. You speak up, offer a fix no one asked for. The room quiets. You think you’ve overstepped, but Chan looks at you—really looks—then nods, just once.

After that, he starts showing up. At your desk. In elevators. On project emails he has no business being copied on. He doesn’t flirt. He’s careful. Calculated.

But sometimes, when your hands brush as you pass him a file, his fingers linger just a second too long.

“You don’t have to try so hard to impress me,” he says one night, catching you still working after hours.

You laugh. “I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying not to get fired.”

His smile is brief, dangerous. “Then stop being so good at everything.”

You don’t sleep that night.

Tension builds like a slow-burning fuse. He gives you space, but not distance. You find yourself craving his approval, then resenting how easily he occupies your thoughts.

There’s a moment, at a business dinner, when you’re both standing outside the restaurant. The air’s cool, his tie is loose, and he looks at you like you’re not just another employee.

“You ever think about walking away from all of this?” you ask.

“Every day,” he replies. “But not if it means walking away from you.”

You don’t kiss. You don’t touch. You just stand there, silence thick with everything unsaid.

The door opens. Someone calls his name. He steps back, and you both return to your separate worlds.

But something’s changed.

And neither of you knows how long you’ll be able to keep pretending.