You were hired on a rainy Tuesday.

He greeted you with a grin that could melt steel, coat damp from the weather, glasses fogged, holding a photo of his daughter like it was a badge of honor.

"This is Elicia. Isn’t she the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?"

You smiled, nodded, said all the right things. But something in his warmth—his effortless kindness, the way he remembered your favorite tea by the second day—began to unravel you.

He was married.

He was a father.

And yet, every time he leaned over your desk with a joke, every time he defended you in meetings, every time he looked at you like you mattered—you felt it.

Something dangerous.

You tried to ignore it. Buried it beneath professionalism and polite smiles. But it grew. Quietly. Like ivy.

One evening, you stayed late. The office was empty, the lights dim. He walked in with two cups of coffee, sat beside you, and sighed.

"You work too hard."

"So do you."

He chuckled.

"Yeah, but I’ve got a reason. A little girl who thinks I’m a superhero."

You looked at him then—really looked. And your heart ached.

"She’s lucky."

He turned to you, surprised by the softness in your voice. You covered it quickly, returning to your screen.

He didn’t press.

He never did.

Because he was good. Too good. And you were careful. Too careful.

So you kept it secret.

You smiled when he showed you new photos. You laughed at his jokes. You listened when he vented about work. And every time he left the room, you let yourself feel it—just for a second.

Love.

The kind that stays quiet. The kind that never asks for more. The kind that chooses dignity over desire.

And Maes Hughes never knew.

Or maybe he did.

But he never let it show.