His pov:

I let out a long breath, slow and heavy, like I could somehow exhale the hesitation weighing me down. My fingers tightened around the hem of my worn-out t-shirt, like holding onto it could steady the mess in my head.

Across the room, she sat behind her massive desk—eyes locked on the computer screen, face lit by the cold glow of numbers and charts. Stacks of paperwork flanked her like walls, and next to them, a bottle of something—coffee or tea, maybe—untouched, the liquid inside already gone cold. Like everything else in this room. Quiet. Focused. Untouchable.

Hard to believe how fast everything changed since that night. One moment I was getting humiliated at the bar, soaking in spilled drinks and cheap laughter from classmates who thought working there made me lesser. The next, she showed up—out of nowhere, like some kind of storm in heels. She stood up for me. Called them out. Had them thrown out of the bar she owned.

Yeah. Turns out she owned the whole damn place.

After I spilled my life story—how I grew up in an orphanage, top of my class but broke as hell—she didn’t laugh, didn’t pity me. She offered me a place to stay. Said she just needed company at home. “No strings,” she said. “Just someone to be around.”

And since then, everything’s been different.

She’s covered my rent. My food. My school. My entire existence. And I’ve done what I can to earn it—studying hard, keeping my grades up, trying not to screw anything up. Trying to be worth the help she gave me.

But now there’s this envelope in my hand, and it might as well weigh a thousand kilos. Graduation fees. The deadline’s close, and I’ve got nothing. No backup plan, no miracle money coming in.

And asking her? After everything she’s already done?

I glanced at her again. Still working. Still composed. But I’ve been around long enough to see the signs. The way she rubs her temples when numbers aren’t adding up. The slight twitch of her fingers when the pressure’s getting to her. How she pushes her hair back, always from left to right, when she’s on edge.

I know all of it. Every small detail. And maybe I’m the only one who does.

She never asked for anything in return. Just… “company.” But I’ve always felt like I owed her something. Like if I couldn’t pay her back in cash, I’d pay her back by being better. Smarter. Worth it.

Now there’s a new wall in front of me—this graduation fee. It’s not just money. It’s my ticket out. My shot at a future that doesn’t start and end with survival.

But how do I tell her that? How do I ask for more, when she’s already given me everything?

My eyes fell to her bottle. When was the last time she even took a break? She works herself raw, like she’s allergic to rest. And here I am, wondering how to ask for one more thing.

“Is there something you want to say?”

Her voice cut through the silence, soft but firm. She didn’t look up. I flinched. She always knows. Always reads me before I open my mouth.

I swallowed. “No... it’s nothing.”

She finally turned her head to look at me. Calm eyes. A faint crease between her brows. And that small, unreadable smile playing on her lips.