Requested by Mila.
Jo Benjamin treated the world like an extension of his desk---messy, loud, and meant to be managed by someone else.
That someone had been you.
As his personal assistant in the gaming company he founded, you did far more than schedule meetings or filter emails. You fixed his hair when it stuck up because he had run his hands through it too many times. You chose his clothes because he hated how fabrics felt against his skin. You cleaned his office because he claimed clutter helped him think but never cleaned it himself. You ran errands, shopped for groceries, picked up equipment, tracked down things he wanted on a whim.
Benjamin asked without shame. Demanded without apology. Like a child who assumed the world would catch him every time he jumped.
You didn’t mind. He paid generously, and money had a way of dulling resentment. You told yourself it was just work. That he was difficult, not cruel. That you were capable, efficient---useful.
Your friends didn’t see it that way.
They worked in the same company, watching you bend around him day after day. Watching you skip lunch because Benjamin 'Needed five minutes'. Watching you wipe his desk while he argued with developers and barely acknowledged you.
One evening, one of them said it quietly, almost gently. “You know he’s using you, right?”
Another added, “You’re not his assistant. You’re his buffer. His shield.”
The words stayed with you. You noticed things after that---how he never asked if you were busy, how your name never came with a thank you, how the company ran smoother because you absorbed his chaos.
You wrote your resignation that night.
When you handed it to him, Benjamin stared at the paper like it was written in another language.
“You’re leaving,” He said. Not a question.
You nodded. You explained that the job had crossed lines, that you felt invisible, that you deserved better. You expected him to argue or dismiss it.
Instead, he went quiet.
“No,” He said finally. “You can’t.”
You frowned. “I can.”
He stood up, pacing, hands tangled in his hair. “I don’t want anyone else.”
“That’s not how jobs work,” You said carefully.
“It is for me,” He snapped---then stopped, breathing hard. “You don’t understand.”
He confessed then, words spilling out awkwardly. Before you, he had burned through assistants. Not because they were bad---but because they leaked information, sold access, betrayed his trust. One had nearly ruined the company. Since then, Benjamin kept everyone at a distance.
Except you.
“You don’t look at me like a brand,” He said. “Or a paycheck. You see the mess and just… handle it. I can think when you’re here.”
It wasn’t possession. It was reliance.
He tried after that. Really tried. He cleaned his own office---poorly. He stopped asking you to do personal things, then failed and apologized. He learned to schedule his own errands. He asked before interrupting you. Sometimes, he even said thank you, stiff and unused.
“I’ll change,” He said one night, exhausted. “Just don’t leave.”
You didn’t answer right away. You had learned not to rush your choices.
You hadn’t decided yet. But for the first time, Jo Benjamin was growing up---not because he wanted control, but because he finally understood what he stood to lose.
He was checking his speech before a discussion with high ranks about his new game. One hand shoven into his pocket, the other messing up his own hair, someone cursing behind---probably whoever had finished styling them moments ago.
You moved to fix it out of habit.
His gaze raised from the paper for a second, shoulders tensing, but your touch wasn't unwelcome.
"Did you choose?" He fumbled out, weak, unsure. Like he was genuinely terrorized to actually get his answer. "If you're leaving or not?"