I copied the documents and returned to his office as quickly as I could, the quiet rhythm of my steps barely matching the louder pulse of something restless building inside me, and when I stepped back in, I found Chak seated behind his desk, composed at first glance yet not entirely, because I could see it in the way his fingers pressed just a little too firmly against the surface, in the faint tension held in his shoulders, in the way his gaze lifted to meet mine with something restrained, something he was clearly holding back.
I walked up to his desk without hesitation, though my chest felt strangely tight, and placed the documents in front of him as I said, "Your documents, Mr. CEO," letting a small smile curve onto my lips, light and teasing in a way that didn't quite match the heaviness in the air between us.
For a brief second, he didn't respond.
Then he stood.
The movement was smooth, controlled, but there was no mistaking the intent behind it as he stepped around the desk and closed the distance between us, and before I could even react properly, his hands were on me—firm yet careful—as he lifted me as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if I weighed nothing at all, and carried me toward the couch like the space behind him had already been decided long before I walked back into the room.
He sat down first, and I settled instinctively onto his lap, my body fitting against his without resistance, without thought, as if this had become something familiar, something my body understood even before my mind caught up, and I let myself lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder while my eyes slowly closed, the tension that had followed me dissolving in the quiet closeness between us.
His hand moved to my back, gentle, slow, tracing a calm rhythm that grounded me more than anything else could, each stroke steady and unhurried, as if he was deliberately giving me something I hadn't realized I needed.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
And somehow, that silence said everything.
"I'm happy," I murmured softly, my voice quieter than I intended, barely above a whisper as I stayed close to him, not opening my eyes, not moving away, "that you're my boyfriend… and my CEO."
I felt the subtle shift in him before anything else, the way his breathing changed just slightly, the way his hand paused for the briefest second before continuing, and then I felt his lips against my cheek—soft, warm, lingering just enough to make something tighten gently in my chest.
"Only you," he said quietly, his voice low, close, meant just for me, "have the privilege that I make time for you… even if it's in the middle of work."
His words didn't feel like a joke.
They didn't feel light.
They settled somewhere deeper, somewhere that made me instinctively lean closer, as if I wanted to stay right there, in that small, stolen moment that existed just for us, untouched by everything waiting outside that office.
And for once—
I didn't think about anything else.
I stayed there a little longer than I probably should have, letting the quiet settle around us like something fragile I didn't want to disturb, my breathing slowly syncing with his, my body relaxing in a way that only ever seemed to happen when I was this close to him, when the world outside stopped mattering for just a few stolen minutes.
But reality, as always, didn't stay away for long.
I shifted slightly in his lap, not fully pulling away, just enough to tilt my head and look at him, my eyes opening slowly as I studied his expression from this close, noticing how the tension from earlier hadn't completely disappeared, how something still lingered beneath the calm he showed me.
"You were holding back," I said quietly, not accusing, just stating it the way it felt, my voice soft but certain, because I had seen it the moment I walked in.
His hand paused on my back again.
This time, it didn't move right away.
For a second, his gaze drifted away from mine, not avoiding—just thinking—and then it returned, steady, controlled, but more honest than before.
"There's always something to handle," he replied, his tone low, measured, but not distant, not with me, never fully with me.
I didn't answer immediately.
Instead, I let my fingers lightly catch the fabric of his shirt, holding onto it without really thinking, grounding myself in the small detail as I watched him.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," I murmured after a moment, my voice quieter now, softer in a way I didn't often allow myself to be.
That made something shift in his expression.
Not visibly to anyone else.
But I saw it.
A subtle crack in the control he held so tightly.
His hand moved again, this time sliding slightly higher along my back, not just soothing now, but holding, as if he was anchoring me there just as much as I was anchoring myself to him.
"You being here," he said after a brief pause, his voice lower than before, almost thoughtful, "already makes it easier."
The words weren't dramatic.
They weren't exaggerated.
And that made them mean more.
I felt it settle somewhere deep in my chest, warm and steady, and before I could overthink it, I leaned in just a little closer again, my forehead brushing lightly against his jaw as I exhaled softly.
"Then I'll stay," I whispered.
There was a faint sound of something shifting outside the office—distant footsteps, muted voices, the reminder that the world was still moving, that this moment wasn't supposed to last forever.
But neither of us moved right away.
His hand slowed again, tracing the same calm pattern against my back, and for a brief moment, it almost felt like time adjusted around us instead of the other way around.
Then—
A soft knock.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
But enough.
I stilled slightly, my eyes opening again as I turned my head just enough to glance toward the door, the reality we had been ignoring finally catching up to us.
I let out a small, quiet breath, somewhere between a sigh and a reluctant acceptance, and shifted just enough to look back at him.
"Five minutes," I murmured, a faint hint of a smile returning to my lips, echoing his earlier words without needing to say more.
Because we both knew—
Even if the door opened,
even if work stepped back in this?
This didn't disappear.