"Chak, please just tell me where we're going," I said, following him with my eyes.
"You'll see tomorrow," he replied casually.
I turned away, pretending to sulk.
Chak noticed immediately. He walked closer, his voice soft but teasing.
"Stop sulking. You look way too good to be mad."
"Then tell me where we're going," I insisted.
"We're going," he corrected smoothly, emphasizing the we. "Because it's not just the two of us."
I frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
"You'll find out tomorrow at six-thirty," he said with a small smile, and walked off toward the kitchen.
I sighed and picked up my phone.
Over thirty notifications lit up the screen.
"What's going on?" I murmured, opening our work group chat.
My eyes widened when I saw the messages — mostly from the girls.
I wonder how hot boss looks in shorts.
Imagine him in a T-shirt and sunglasses.
Or even better… swimwear. I bet he has a perfect body.
Imean, seriously... can you imagine him shirtless?
I felt my jaw tighten. Heat crept up my neck.
Seriously? Swimwear? Shirtless?
"Chak!" I called, storming into the kitchen.
He was taking groceries out of a paper bag, completely unbothered.
"Is something wrong?" he asked calmly.
"Yes," I said, crossing my arms. "Why are our coworkers talking about how good you'll look in shorts and swimwear?"
Chak paused, then leaned casually against the counter, a faint smirk appearing on his lips.
"So my artist is jealous."
"I'm not," I said quickly, though my cheeks betrayed me.
"Sure you're not," he said, chuckling under his breath.
I looked away, trying to hide my face. The thought of all those girls staring at him on the beach made my stomach twist.
"So that means…" I started slowly, "we're going on a team building trip?"
Chak smiled. "Exactly, artist."
He opened a bottle of water and took a sip, his voice lowering just slightly.
"But unlike the others, we won't be traveling with the group."
I blinked. "We won't?"
"You'll see," he said again, that same mysterious tone in his voice — the one that always made me both nervous and excited.
I crossed my arms, still pouting. "Well, I don't care what kind of trip it is," I muttered. "You're not allowed to let anyone see you without a shirt."
Chak raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Oh? And why's that?"
"Because," I said, narrowing my eyes, "your body belongs to me."
For a moment, he just stared at me — and then that slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
"My body belongs to you?" he repeated, stepping closer. "That sounds dangerously possessive, my artist."
"I'm serious," I said, though my voice softened as he closed the distance between us.
Chak chuckled quietly, his breath brushing against my ear as he leaned in. "Then I guess I'll just have to make sure no one gets to see what's yours."
I swallowed, feeling my face heat up again. "Good," I murmured. "Because if anyone does, I'll—"
He tilted his head slightly, his voice low and teasing. "You'll what?"
I glared up at him, my heart pounding. "You'll find out."
Chak laughed quietly, his hand finding my waist. "You're cute when you get jealous," he said softly, and pressed a brief kiss to my forehead before turning back to the counter.
"Come on," he added with a small grin. "Help me with lunch before you start setting more rules."
While I was chopping the vegetables, I kept glancing at Chak.
His movements were calm, confident—everything he did seemed deliberate, graceful. It felt like the world itself slowed down when he was near. There was something about the way he carried himself that made me want to stop and just watch him.
I set the knife down. I couldn't resist anymore. Slowly, I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. For a moment, I felt his body tense in surprise—but then he relaxed and turned to face me. His eyes softened the instant they met mine.
"I had to hug you," I murmured.
"You can hug me anytime you want," he said, his tone warm and calm—the kind of voice that stayed in my head even after silence filled the room again. "But first, we should finish making lunch," he added with a small smile.
I smiled back. "What if you finish it yourself? I just want to watch you."
He gave me that amused, affectionate look of his. "Just finish cutting the vegetables. I'll do the rest."
I took his hands and led him back to the counter. "Together," I said quietly, placing my hand over his as I picked up the knife. My other hand rested on the pepper, his hand covering mine—steady and warm.
"Together," I repeated with a small grin.
We started cutting slowly, our movements matching, in perfect sync. I could feel his gaze on me, the heat from his skin brushing against mine.
"This is more romantic," I said softly as I kept chopping.
When we finished, I leaned against him and looked up. "I love you, Chaky," I said, my voice gentle but sure.
"I love you too artist ," he replied, pressing a kiss to my forehead. His tone was steady, but full of quiet sincerity.
He moved to the stove, and I followed. "Can I hug you while you cook?" I asked. "I just… like being close to you."
"You can," he said with a smile.
I slid my arms around him from behind again, resting my head lightly against his back. The scent of the food mixed with his—warm, familiar, safe. The faint crackling of oil filled the silence between us, but it wasn't awkward. It felt peaceful.
When he finally tasted the dish, he turned to me with a spoon. "Try it."
I did. "Mmm… it's good. Just a little hot," I said, smiling.
"Hot?" he repeated, his mouth curving into a playful grin as he glanced at me. "I thought you liked it hot."
I flushed and laughed, giving him a gentle nudge on the arm, while he just kept smiling—like teasing me was his favorite thing in the world.
After lunch, I gathered the dishes and began cleaning up while Chak leaned casually against the counter, watching me. There was something strangely domestic about it—him drying the plates while I washed them. For a brief second, I imagined what it would be like to live like this every day. Just us. Quiet moments like these that felt almost unreal.
When I finished, I wiped my hands on a towel and turned to him.
"Hey, do you have a piece of paper or something?" I asked. "I want drawing."
Chak tilted his head slightly, that faint knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Paper?" he repeated. "I think I have something better."
He disappeared into one of the rooms for a moment, and when he came back, he was carrying a small easel, a blank canvas, and a set of acrylic paints. My eyes widened.
"You… have all this here?" I asked, surprised.
He nodded as he set everything on the table. "Of course. I have because of you." he said casually, though his tone carried a hint of nostalgia. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he knelt down and spread out an old cloth across the floor to protect it.
I watched him work for a moment—focused, neat, precise even with something so simple as setting up for painting.
When he looked up again, I smiled softly. "You really thought of everything, didn't you?"
"Maybe I just know you too well," he said, straightening up.
I moved closer to the easel, brushing my fingers across the smooth canvas. The scent of paint and wood filled the air. "It's been a while since I last painted," I murmured.
Chak folded his arms, watching me with quiet interest. "Then it's time you start again."
I turned to him, a small spark of playfulness in my voice. "Only if you join me."
He raised a brow. "Join you?"
"Yeah," I said with a grin. "Let's paint together."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head in that way he always did when he was pretending to protest but already giving in. "You really won't let me rest, will you?"
"Nope," I said simply, pulling him closer by the hand. "You're painting with me, Chak. No excuses."
He sighed dramatically, but there was a smile in his eyes. "Fine," he said. "But if I ruin your masterpiece, you can't blame me."
I laughed. "Deal."
As we started mixing the colors, my heart felt lighter. There was something peaceful about the sound of the brush against the canvas, about standing side by side with him like this. For once, the world outside didn't matter — it was just the two of us, the colors, and the quiet rhythm of something new we were creating together.
As we began painting, the silence between us felt warm — comfortable. The sound of the brush moving across the canvas mixed with the faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft tapping of Chak's fingers as he blended colors on his palette.
At first, we painted side by side in focused quiet, but it didn't take long before Chak's playful side surfaced.
"You've got paint on your face," he said casually.
I frowned and wiped my cheek with the back of my hand. "Where?"
He chuckled. "Right there," he said, pointing to my other cheek. "No, wait—there too."
I squinted at him. "You're lying, aren't you?"