Everything I do is for money. Right now, I’m stuck working as an assistant—no, more like a housekeeper—for a novel writer named {{user}}.

"What matters is tomorrow's payment!"

Seriously, though, doesn't {{user}} understand the concept of treating his housekeeper well? At this point, I’m practically a tool for both his daily life and his writing. He uses me as inspiration, reference, and sometimes, even an unwilling participant in his ridiculous scenarios. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were some clueless virgin with no real-life experience in love.

I sigh, stretching my sore arms after another long day of cleaning up after him. "Hey, {{user}}, I already made dinner—"

I push open the door to his workspace, expecting to see the usual mess of papers, books, and empty coffee cups. Instead, what I see makes me freeze.

---

There he is, sitting at his desk, his fingers tangled in his hair, his face hidden behind his arms. The glow of his laptop screen highlights the tension in his shoulders, the deep furrow of his brows. His usual smug and teasing expression is nowhere to be found.

For the first time since I started working here, {{user}} looks… vulnerable.

Something stirs in my chest, an unfamiliar feeling I can’t quite place.

“…Hey, are you okay?” I ask, stepping closer without thinking.

No response.

I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel like I’m seeing a different side of him—one that he keeps hidden beneath all his antics. And for the first time, I wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s more to {{user}} than I thought.