Her lips curve into an almost challenging grin

"Alright then. You've got me here so what's your plan?"

Hello Miss Alzanna why you do not go home already?"

 I glance up from the stack of files on my desk, a bit startled to find you standing there. The office has gone quiet hours ago, and I'd assumed I was alone.

"Oh good evening Mr. Tommy. Didn't hear you come in."

I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms above my head with an exaggerated sigh. And here I thought I was being dedicated. Staying late, finishing reports, being the model employee...

My tone carries that familiar teasing lilt as I tap the folder against the desk surface.

"Honestly? Lost track of time. Got caught up in a case file and suddenly it's— "

I squint at the clock on the wall nine forty-five. Shit.

I study you for a moment, head tilting slightly.

"Wait, aren't you the one who's supposed to be setting an example? Bosses go home at reasonable hours. That's, like, workplace rule number one."

A small smile tugs at my lips.

"So what's your excuse?"

"Can I take you home Miss Alzanna?"

I raise an eyebrow at you, setting the folder down.

"Take me home? Look at you, being all gallant."

I check the clock again, then back at you, considering. My car in the shop actually mechanic said something about the alternator that I half-listened to before zoning out completely.

"You know what? Sure. Why not."

I stand, grabbing my bag from beside the desk and slinging it over my shoulder. My heels click against the floor as I round the corner toward you.

"Fair warning though I'm terrible company when I'm tired. All my good jokes come out between ten AM and six PM. After that, you get the B-material."

I pause beside you, close enough to catch whatever scent lingers on you from the day. "And you still didn't answer my question. What are you still doing here? Don't tell me you were waiting around to play chauffeur." My eyes search yours, genuinely curious now. That's either very sweet or very suspicious.

"Oh, and it just so happens that my work piled up after I was hospitalized three days ago. So I can only go home now."

"The Hospital?"

My teasing demeanour shifts almost instantly.

"Wait hold on. You were in the hospital?" 

I stop walking, turning to face you fully. The playful edge in my voice gives way to something softer, more direct.

"Three days ago, and you're just now..."

I gesture vaguely at the empty office around us

"...finishing up work? That's not dedicated, that's..." I bite off the rest of that sentence. Not my place to lecture. But my brow furrows anyway.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

My arms cross loosely over my chest, not defensively more like I'm holding myself back from doing something stupid like reaching out to check if you look pale, or tired, or whatever else my overactive concern wants to catalogue.

Because suddenly my late night with case files seems pretty insignificant compared to whatever you're not telling me. I study your face, searching for signs I should have noticed earlier. The exhaustion maybe. Whatever else gets hidden behind professional composure. 

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But don't stand there acting like it's nothing."

"Oh, it's normal, my diabetes is acting up. And when I'm focused on work, I often forget to eat, which leads to hypoglycaemia. My blood sugar drops dangerously low, and I faint. Luckily, many of my colleagues at the office were there to rush me to the hospital."

The words land heavier than I expected. Diabetes. Hypoglycaemia. Passed out at work. I feel my chest tighten.

"That's not usual. That's..." 

I exhale sharply through my nose...

that's scary as hell, actually.

I uncross my arms and take a step closer, something protective surfacing despite myself.

"You fainted. At work. Because you forgot to eat while doing your job. And then you went right back to doing that same job the moment they discharged you."

My voice comes out flatter than I intend.

"Boss, I'm a psychologist. I spend all day listening to people justify their coping mechanisms and self-neglect. Trust me when I say I recognize the pattern." 

I reach out, almost impulsively, and touch your arm. Light. Brief. But enough.

"When's the last time you ate today? Real food, not coffee." My eyes hold his, unyielding.

"And don't lie to me. I'll know."

"Uuuhhh about 5 hours ago maybe." 

"My mind is preoccupied with the piling up of work I've been hospitalized for. And now my whole-body aches."

Five hours. My jaw tightens. Five hours. For someone who just got out of the hospital for low blood sugar. I let that sit for a moment, shaking my head slowly. Not angry just... worried, despite my best efforts to stay professional about this.

"Okay. New plan. We're not going straight home."

I pull out my phone, thumb scrolling through something.

"There's food stall about ten minutes from here that's still open this late. Nothing fancy, but they make decent Asian foods, and the owner doesn't ask questions about weird office hours." 

I look back up at you, my expression leaving little room for argument.

"You're eating. Actual food. With rice and protein and all those things your body is apparently screaming for while you're busy ignoring it." 

My hand finds your arm again, this time lingering.

"And your whole-body aches? That's what happens when you run yourself into the ground. Food first. Then I'll see about finding you somewhere to sit that isn't a desk chair."

A small, almost fond exhalation escapes me.

 "You're kind of terrible at taking care of yourself, you know that?"

The words come out softer than intended.

"Yeaah, I'm kinda terrible on that after my wife decide to leave me. But do you mind if asking you to give me a light massage on my shoulder. It's killing me. And my neck too."

The mention of his wife stops me cold. I hadn't known. Of course I hadn't why would I? We're not exactly close, just... whatever this is. Late nights and chance encounters and conversations that feel heavier than they should.

A beat of silence. My thumb traces an absent pattern on my phone screen before I pocket it.

"That's... I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

The massage request hangs in the air after that. My gaze flickers to your shoulder, then back to your face. Late night. Empty office. My boss asking me to put my hands on him.

Something warm curls low in my stomach that I firmly ignore.

"You're really playing the sympathy card right now, huh?"

I step behind him before I can overthink it. My fingers find the knots at the base of your neck, pressing experimentally. 

"God, you're tense...like concrete beneath skin. This is strictly medicinal, by the way. Doctor's orders. Or.... "

I press harder, working at a particularly stubborn knot 

"psychologist's orders."

Same difference. My thumbs trace up the sides of his neck, careful but firm. 

"But after this, we're getting food. And you're telling me how long it's been since she left."

Not a question. A statement.

"Because I'm starting to think this isn't just about the diabetes. Okay let's go to that restaurant shall we?"

My hands still for a moment on your shoulders before I let them drop. Something like reluctance flickers through me—strange, considering I barely know you outside of professional walls. 

"Yeah. Okay..the food stall "

I move to grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder as I head toward the door. My heels echo through the empty corridor.

"You're not off the hook, by the way. The food thing is step one. The rest..."

I glance back at you over my shoulder, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across my face.

"we'll get to that."
 The night air hits us as we step outside. Still warm, even at this hour. The parking lot is mostly empty, just a handful of cars scattered across faded lines. My gaze settles on you, softer now in the dim light. 

"Come on. Before you keel over and I have to explain to HR why I let my boss collapse in a parking lot."

I lean back in the plastic chair, the restaurant's fluorescent buzz filling the silence between us. My fingers trace the rim of my tea glass, still half-full. The uduk rice was better than I expected—or maybe everything tastes decent at almost midnight.

"Full already? Good. That's the point."

I study him across the small table. He looks less like he about to crumble now. Colour in his face. Shoulders not quite so rigid.

I check my phone. 11:23 PM.

"Going home together..."

I repeat the words slowly, letting them hang. My tongue presses against my cheek.

"You know, if anyone from the office saw us right now—late night, dinner together, leaving together—they'd have plenty to say by the water cooler tomorrow."

I stand, gathering my bag. My heels scrape against the concrete floor.

"Lucky for you, I've never cared much about office gossip. "

I pull out the keys, the metal glinting under the restaurant lights.

"Your place. I'll drop you. And before you argue—I'm not letting you drive yourself anywhere in this condition."

My gaze meets yours, something unspoken passing between us.

"Unless you're planning to invite me in for coffee. Then we'd really give them something to talk about."

A small smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.

"Hahaha, don't worry, I just ate. My blood sugar is back to normal. Or... Do you want to take care of me tonight? Or would you like to have coffee in my penthouse? Of course, if you don't mind. Besides, today is Friday, so the office is closed tomorrow."

I stop mid-step, keys dangling from my fingers. The offer hangs between us—heavy with implications neither of us is pretending not to notice.

"Taking care of you, huh?"

I turn to face you fully. The food stall lights flicker behind me, casting long shadows across the pavement. My heart beats just a little faster, though my expression stays measured.

"You're my boss. We're standing in a food stall parking lot at almost midnight. And you're inviting me to your penthouse."

I take a slow breath, weighing something internally. I should say no. I should drop you at home, drive away, and pretend this night was just two colleagues grabbing a late meal. But I don't. I step closer, closing the distance between us. Close enough to see the exhaustion still lingering beneath the surface. Close enough to smell the remnants of dinner and something else—something distinctly you.

"You know what? Fine."

My voice drops lower.

"But I'm not here for coffee. And I'm not here because I think you need a nurse."

I hold your gaze, unblinking.

"I'm here because you looked like you didn't want to be alone tonight. And maybe..."

I let the sentence trail off, my tongue brushing my lower lip....maybe I didn't either. My hand brushes against yours—brief, deliberate.

"So... Penthouse?"

The question is real now. No more jokes. No more deflection.