Work Text:
“It’s late,” you note, halfway through the threshold of his office. A scolding disguised as an observation.
He doesn’t look up from the contracts and ledgers littering his desk like ash. Answers beneath the shadows and exhaustion rimmed purple around his brilliant, scarlet eyes.
“You don’t have to stay.” Dismissal cloaked as a tease.
You make a face, toeing the line between a scowl and a smirk. Crossing your arms, you lean against the doorframe, watching your boss run himself into a premature grave.
“Yeah. But if I leave, I’m worried you’ll take out a second mortgage to live here.”
That earns a snort from the man of the hour. The man who carries the world on brawny shoulders like Atlas forced to bear the sky.
With annual inspections on the horizon, he’s lived in his office like it’s all he’s known, poring over documents, checking up on clients, and obsessing over every detail. He’s yet to fail one in the time you’ve worked as his secretary, yet that notion doesn’t stop the meticulous perfectionist in him from bolstering through.
He works late. He shoves his employees out, reasoning they need time to reset. He hands them security on a silver platter while denying himself time to breathe. Why doesn’t he allot himself the same luxuries?
In the silence thrives flipping pages, the HVAC system kicking in, and the nightlife beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. He’s swathed in the harsh glow of his monitor and the neon of the sprawling city behind him. Earlier, he discarded his jacket and rolled his sleeves to the crooks of his elbows. A sign that he was in for the long haul.
For a moment, you chew on your lip. Pensive as you tap your foot against the hardwood, scanning through the catalog of your thoughts for an excuse to get him out of this prison.
Sylus Qin, the head of a prestigious investment firm. A young, self-made prodigy. A man who’s always on the move with an aura that bodes something dangerous tucked beneath expensive textiles and rehearsed smiles. He bends for no one, moving through boardrooms and settlements with a soundless grace that warps particles and turns heads.
He yields to no one except you.
Sometimes.
You’re that nagging little voice at the base of his skull, harassing him to eat when you’ve noticed he’s been shacked up in his office for too long. The buzz of a fly, sweeping in with coffee, snacks, and water. The one reminding him to stretch—remember that one time you miraculously hid his office chair so he was forced to move around without giving his spine the piss? Until he ordered a new one. Because, of course, he did.
Everyone around the office has noticed a stark difference. With you in the picture, the unshakable Mr. Qin’s smiled a little more. Laughed that expensive laugh that could bankrupt you a little breathier. Been more open to constructive criticism and a lot less critical of himself. You’ve even bullied charmed him into joining his team for lunch a few times.
Your co-workers think that’s your doing, the crack in his mask. And you think they’re insane, because a man like Sylus doesn’t change unless he’s sewn it into the tapestry of his own fate himself. Still, you can’t deny that lately, he’s revealed more of himself to you than he did when you first came to work as his aide.
Descending back to the present, you shake your head against your recollections. You uncross your arms, cautioning some steps into your boss’s office until the rug swallows up the thud of your shoes.
“Have you eaten?”
You know he hasn’t, if a glance at the barely-touched salad near his elbow is any gauge. Wincing, you save your admonishing for later.
His response is a noncommittal grunt. A sound that’s barely discernible, rivaled by the flip of another page. The scrawl of a pen, a yawn of thunder brewing in the troposphere.
Swallowing, you come to a full stop some inches away from the lacquered edge of his desk. Still, he doesn’t look up, halfway expecting you to challenge him. Used to your forwardness, never deterring it.
From your vantage point, it’s easier to make out the details of his hair. The costly pleat of his clothes. How hollowed out his cheeks look, the pallor of his skin, the tension knotted between his fingers.
“Well, I’m hungry,” you declare, setting down the groundwork for your plan.
Sylus huffs a tired laugh. “Then you should eat. I’m not holding you hostage, am I?”
You scoff. He might as well be. Knows damn well you’re not leaving until he does—or until he forcibly removes you from the building via a hand at the small of your back, ushering you to your car.
Resolving yourself, you plant firm hands on his desk atop the binder he’s been nitpicking since noon, effectively stopping him from turning another page.
Finally, he does look up. And when those remarkable reds find you, an amalgamation of vexation and amusement toiling in his eyes, your breath stutters.
He’s unfairly pretty. More someone you’d expect to see lining the pages of Parisian fashion magazines or strutting a catwalk, and less a CEO bogged down by pride.
With a sigh, Sylus sits back. His lips tilt in one corner, and he twines his fingers together like he’s taking part in an intense negotiation. He’s used to your antics. Your blatant attempts at getting him to take a load off. Some might say he appreciates them.
“You know I don’t like eating alone, sir. ‘sides, it’s late. People are dying to take a bite out of a cute, unsuspecting, vulnerable woman all by her lonesome at this hour.”
The replying chuckle is incredulous. “Vulnerable?” he parrots, the tail of it turning on his tongue with such ease, you feel the texture of his voice pulling at your stomach. “You’re anything but. If anyone kidnapped you, they’d give you back within an hour.”
Feigning hurt, you reel back, a theatrical hand over your heart.
Sure, you’re forward. Maybe even abrasive sometimes. But it’s all bred out of good intentions. You hate to see good people run themselves into the ground. Besides, would your boss even listen to you if you didn’t hold a lit torch to his ass every now and again?
With a resigned, accepting exhale, Sylus pushes away from his desk and stands, smoothing over his vest. “Where are we off to, oh vulnerable one?”
Your grin is partway wolfish. Satisfied. Accomplished. Look at you, manipulating one of the most influential men in the country into taking a break. If the secretary thing doesn’t work out, you could opt for becoming a politician.
As Sylus undoes his sleeves and shrugs into his jacket, you stand straight, trying not to get distracted by how wonderfully tall he is. By the comfort he bleeds despite being forged from osmium.
“I know a place.”
—
Said place happens to be a diner at the edge of the city. Somewhere quaint, huddled beneath a bridge dumping onto the highway and the fluorescent wash of aging billboards.
It’s a 24-hour spot that reeks of coffee and grease. Mottled with truckers seeking refuge from the impending storm and endless days on the road.
The diner carries a 1950s theme inside. Peeling pink walls and checkered floors to drive its charm home. It exudes nostalgia. Unlike the upscale places Mr. Qin’s swept you and his team off to for lunch, where the menus are in different languages and the prices aren’t even printed.
It’s also kind of funny, seeing your boss—the paradigm of regality—sitting across from you at a sticky table, taking in the decor like a man who’s entered a time capsule.
He’s a stark cutout of black, white, and red, folded into the booth with his fingers twined together. So incredibly massive, the jaundiced lights bend for him, and everyone keeps staring.
The poor waitress fumbled over her welcoming spiel and nearly dropped her notepad, subjected to those pretty, scarlet eyes that carry hidden burdens if you’re really looking.
You can’t blame her—you’ve experienced hypoxia more times than you can count, staring at him, too.
A distraction comes in the form of your waitress, returning with a pair of laminated menus.
“Take your time,” she murmurs, an adorable dusting of pink on her cheeks as Sylus thanks her with a dimpled crook of his lips.
You watch his fingers—long, thin, dexterous things—as he scrutinizes the menu. You’ve always been obsessed with his hands. The veins that spill like constellations down to his fingers, branching up to bury themselves beneath the cuffs of his shirt. Hands bleeding strength that look like they’ve fought more wars than a typical CEO.
“What’s good here?” he asks, cleaving through the nebula of your musings.
You blink rapidly, schooling your lips into a smile. He’s cute when he’s like that. That knot between his brows when he’s into something. How he draws his bottom lip between his teeth, pensive.
“What’s this? Is Mr. Qin asking for someone else’s advice for a change? He must be sick.”
He gives you a flat look from the rim of the menu. “I could leave—”
“Joking!” you backpedal, waving your hands. “Geez. Live a little.”
Toying with the discarded paper of your straw on the table, you fight against the warmth enlivening your face when he studies you like the fine print of a contract.
“If you’re not watching your girlish figure, the burgers here are pretty good. Greasy, but you can tell they put love into them. Wouldn’t be a real diner if you couldn’t taste the hypertension more than the meat.”
Setting the menu down, your boss allows himself a rare smile. More ease than something he’s slapped on to appease the masses. Then again, he’s always smiled more genuinely with you. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Really?” You perk up. “Well, sir. Since you’re in a compromising mood, we should really talk about a raise—”
“Don’t. Push it,” he sighs, flagging down the waitress.
You laugh, turning your water in your hands, the condensation of it saturating your palms. He’d give you a raise in a heartbeat. God knows he’s offered more than once.
You give each other shit, but you honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. You enjoy this side of him. A rare treat, allowed into this hidden quadrant of his life.
The food arrives amid harmless banter and laughter that echoes in your head, refusing to cut you loose. He eats—actually eats. Not tentative bites to appease you until you’ve turned your back, leaving him to rot in his office. Not laughable spoonfuls between phone calls and meetings that he barely has time to savor.
He takes his time, appreciating each bite like it’s his last, the tension sloughing off his shoulders with each swallow.
For you, it’s refreshing. It’s intimate. It’s a secret you shouldn’t be witnessing, watching your boss slow down for a change. You hide that stupid smile behind your burger, resisting an urge to swipe a crumb from his lip whilst he eats.
He catches you staring every so often, that smile boyish, disarming, unfair. He deserves nice things. To slow down and savor what he deprives himself of.
Sylus doesn’t let you pay when you finish your meals in homely silence. Of course, he doesn’t, brandishing his black card like a key to the city.
It was your idea to drag him out, and yet he’s forever an insufferable gentleman. A benevolent boss. A friend who would rather die than let you lift a finger. Maybe that’s why you both click so well. Two stubborn souls trapped in a never-ending dance of caring for each other.
He huffs a pleasant sound at your audacity when you shove a fistful of crumpled-up bills onto the table, wanting to contribute, anyway.
“Your money’s no good here,” he taunts, pocketing your washed-up Washingtons. “But I’ll give these to the homeless the next time I encounter them.”
You glare at him flatly. One, because he took your money. Two, because he coupled his blatant thievery with an insult. He softens the blow with a smile that pinches something in your chest. If he weren’t handsome and paying you a kidney to work for him, you’d tackle him.
When you leave, he holds the door open for you. You buzz like fulfilled Sims on the walk to your car, side-by-side on the sidewalk, your hands brushing. You attempt to stifle the sensation of electricity spiking each time you touch. Each time he presses close as a pedestrian passes, and he herds you back to his side when you wander near the street.
Thunder purrs above, drawing your attention skyward. The scent of wet earth and asphalt salts the air. Nimbostratus clouds shove through, heavy, grey, threatening. You exchange a look with your employer, shrugging sheepishly. At least you got him out before it came down.
Drawing the driver’s door open for you, Sylus ushers you inside. “It’s alright. Let’s get out of here before either of us catches a cold.”
“Ah. That wouldn’t be so bad, though. At least somebody would finally sit his ass down somewhere that isn’t behind a monitor.”
You flinch when Sylus flicks your forehead.
You don’t miss the flash of his smile when he shuts the door behind you, rounding the car to pour himself into the passenger seat.
—
Of course, the rain has impeccable timing.
Mother Nature was merciful enough to spare you on the ride to Mr. Qin’s penthouse—you vehemently refused to take him back to the investment firm. He relented with a chuckle you felt in your toes, reasoning this could pass for kidnapping.
You caught the beginnings of the downpour. Glacial, translucent sheets tapping against the windshield like marbles spilled over piano keys. A delicate symphony that crescendoed into a cacophonous finale right as you parked near the lobby.
Sylus insisted you come up and wait out the storm. You pressed that you could hack it, but a glance at your windshield wipers—the nonexistent silicone you swore you’d replace, like, four months ago—begged to differ.
He wouldn’t take no for an answer. And you weren’t sure if he was flexing his control as your boss or…something else.
So, a series of unfortunate events leads you here. Nestled amid the opulence of his living room, swathed in a fluffy, oversized towel, the warmth of a mug bleeding into your palms.
Amber leaks like honey from the spotlight mounted in the ceiling overhead. The city’s smudged like pastel sticks on paper amid the rain pelting the ceiling-high windows. It smells of cured leather, mahogany, and cracked vanilla beans in his penthouse. His scent peaks through, enmeshed in each thread and stitch of his expensive furniture.
You watch him pass with your knees bouncing, yet to take a sip of your coffee.
Your throat thickens as he towels off his hair. His shirt clings to his shoulders like snakeskin, dampened by the downpour. You feel like you’re witnessing something sacrilegious. A Catholic priest seeing an ankle for the first time.
It’s unfair how the muscles swim in his back. How his biceps flex beneath the weave of his shirt. How the city lights limn him just right when he stops before the window, his towel slipping to his shoulders, hair curling at the nape of his neck.
It’s like he has a sixth sense. Or he enjoys tormenting you. Because he feels your eyes boring into the hulls of his soul, and he turns to acknowledge you from his shoulder, teeth gleaming in the ambient light.
“Cold? I could lend you one of my shirts if—”
“No no no! It’s alright!” you practically squeal, waving your hands like he caught you taking part in something obscene.
It’s a different vibe, being a part of his space. Not the office with cameras and witnesses and the barrier of professionalism. This is his home—his sanctuary when he isn’t mulling over documents and moving through boardrooms like a tempered storm. This is where he lets the weight of the world fall from his back. Where these walls have witnessed more of him than you could ever hope to.
The thought of wearing his clothes—something so intimate brushing against your skin, something that is his—makes your face burn like coronal ejections spewed from the sun.
He laughs at your tenseness. Just an hour ago, you were threatening to hold him captive if he didn’t go home. And now, you’re this shaking, anxious thing on his sectional, afraid to touch anything like his home is rigged with C4.
Graciously, he leaves to change, granting you a moment of reprieve. “Help yourself to anything you need,” he offers.
Snowball’s chance in hell you will. It isn’t him you don’t trust. It’s yourself.
With a steadying exhale, you peel yourself from the sectional after depositing your mug on the glass-top coffee table. You pull the towel tighter around your shoulders as if it can shield you from your own thoughts. You move around his living space like something ghostly in his absence, admiring each piece of art and the wall hangings adorning his mid-century penthouse.
It suits him, the clean lines, the structure, the simplicity. He lives like a minimalist. Like a man who could pick up and go at the drop of a dime. Yet every piece is intricately placed, as if it serves a purpose. Like they carry more weight in memories than in cost.
Funny. You never pegged your boss as a sentimental person.
Wiping your hands off on your thighs, you wander to a towering bookcase, lined with books of varying widths, textures, and print. You run your fingers over the meticulously kept spines, a familiar title of embossed, gold text sticking out to you.
Snorting quietly, you pluck the hardcover from its home. The sound of flipping pages contends with that of the rain pattering against the rooftop. Not only is he a man of sentiments, but he likes…poetry. One of your favorite writers, too. Another hidden trait you both share.
You start when Sylus emerges from the second floor, donned in something more relaxed. His hair’s still spiked wet, more riotous than its usual coif, but it works for him. Again, you feel like you’re stepping out of bounds, seeing him so relaxed. A side of him you could only dream of.
He stops before you when you turn, holding something dark, loose, and threaded in his hand. “Brought you something to change into, anyway. Wouldn’t want you getting sick since you’re the only one who can keep me in line.”
Chuckling softly, you take him up on his offer. No resistance this time. Like you, he’s a stubborn redwood tree, refusing to accept no when it comes to your well-being.
Maybe you’re still shivering because your hair is wet and your clothes cling, and not because you feel like a knobby-kneed teenager exposing herself in front of her crush.
Your fingers brush as you accept his peace offering. Of course they do. And, of course, fate would intervene, seemingly knocking the book from your other hand. It clatters on the marbled floor between you, your heart lurching to the ground with it.
“Sorry!” You’re kneeling to fetch the hardcover without another thought.
But, so is he.
And again, your fingers graze over the spine. You both stiffen after a shiver currents through you as if you share a conductive path. You lock eyes before trying to dispel the tension with an awkward laugh.
“You come into my home and wreck my things,” says Sylus, the grit of his voice uncharacteristically soft. Quiet, like anything above a whisper would antagonize the storm.
Your lips work around a retort until your eyes meet once more. And the dual flames that peer back at you siphon everything from your throat except anticipation. You never realized how many words a gaze could carry.
Still, he forges onward, never one to hold his tongue.
“You come into my life and flip it completely on its axis.”
By now, he’s panning in. So close, the earthy scent of his skin clots your senses and hijacks the rhythm of your heart.
Your breaths intermingle, the pressure befalling your shoulders dizzying, the space held between your faces collapsing in on itself like a star reaching the end of its life cycle. Your eyes are well-acquainted with the texture of his lips, their color, their fullness. You’ve always wondered if they’re as soft as the pink peonies they resemble.
You can’t look away. You can’t breathe. You can do anything but lean in, drawn into his orbit by the sheer force of his gravity.
His breath spills across your cheeks. You stiffen when tentative fingertips graze your face near your waterline, easing delicate, wet baby hairs behind your ear.
“You weasel your way into my heart and carve this unbearable, you-shaped hole into it.” Sylus clicks his tongue, painting a sluggish, half-amused line between the center of your eyes and mouth. He has every intention of kissing you, yet he prolongs the inevitable, slowly murdering you with the suspense.
“How will you compensate me for the damage you’ve caused?”
“Take my paycheck,” you rasp, mildly surprised by the hoarseness of your voice.
His responding chuckle is sticky. Bewitching. It pulls you forward like driftwood drawn out to sea. Severs something long-standing. Something neither of you had the balls to ruin until now.
And you’re kissing him before reason can settle in. Your fingers cautiously wreathing around his wrist on the floor, lips pressing against his like a misstep could disrupt the spell the rain’s cast.
He’s kissing you back with equal fervor. Equal attentiveness. Equal fear. But when your lips part, making way for a delighted sigh that he greedily sucks into his lungs like his own air, the kiss deepens. You share an exhale, a relieved one, neither of you intending to back down.
You’ve never run from a challenge, especially one presented by your boss.
His palm finds your cheek, cupping it like delicate porcelain as he samples the flavor of your mouth with his tongue.
The rain tempers outside, slowing to a drizzle. The storm retreats, leaving the city aglow like diamonds spilled across a velvet pouch.
Still, a tempest rages inside the walls of Sylus’ penthouse, unperturbed by the world outside. A centuries-old storm that shows no signs of stopping anytime soon now that it’s been brought to life.