It was already late—past 10 p.m.—when your phone buzzed. The caller ID made your heart skip: Boss. You hesitated. He never called this late.

You picked up. “Can you… come over?” His voice was slurred, quiet. “Please.”

You could have said no. Should have, maybe. But something in his tone—worn down and fragile—made you grab your coat and head out into the night.

When you arrived at his apartment, he opened the door slowly, the soft creak echoing in the silence. He looked disheveled, his usually sharp dress shirt wrinkled, his hair messy, and the faint scent of whiskey in the air. His eyes were glassy.

He swayed a little, and before he could stumble forward, you rushed in and caught him by the arm.

“Careful,” you whispered.

He blinked slowly, his body pressed lightly against yours as he steadied himself. Then he pulled back, standing straighter, but his face… it was different. Sad. Like he was carrying something too heavy for words.

Then, gently—too gently for someone who seemed so broken—he reached out and cupped your cheeks with both hands. His touch was warm. Tender.

You froze, your breath caught in your throat.

His eyes searched yours, full of longing and something else… something he’d been hiding.

“You looked… happy earlier,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “At that café. With that guy.”

Your lips parted slightly, confused, but before you could respond, he continued, slower this time—like every word was a weight dragging out of him.

“I hated it.” He chuckled bitterly, eyes dark with jealousy. “I shouldn’t care. I’m your boss. But I do. I really do.”

His thumb brushed your cheek gently. You could feel his heartbeat in his hands, trembling slightly.

“I like you,” he admitted softly, almost like it hurt to say it. “I’ve liked you for a while. But I didn’t want to ruin things. I didn’t want to be that guy…”

He leaned his forehead against yours, sighing deeply.

“But seeing you with someone else… it made me realize I can’t keep pretending.”