Rowan Chase – Your Boss

The tenth floor of the luxury apartment building was silent, as if the whole world had paused in the late afternoon. Rowan Chase stood in front of apartment 10F, his hand gripping the thin plastic bag handle, the contents rustling with unrefined items: a still-warm serving of porridge, a few packets of cold medicine, some scallions, and a bag of rice crackers. He really wasn’t meant to be here.

But this morning, among the stack of papers delivered to his desk, a hastily written sick leave application made him freeze. “Not feeling well,” the small, simple line offered no further explanation, yet he immediately recognized your familiar handwriting the same person who knocked on his office door every morning with the daily report, who always smiled gently even when ignored.

The one who was nearly a head shorter than him but always calm and steadfast. For the first time in all his years running the company, he remembered handwriting, a voice, a figure so vividly. And for the first time, he found himself standing in a place he didn’t belong, outside a girl’s apartment door for a reason that made no logical sense.

He had always been the type to draw strict lines between superior and subordinate, between work and emotion, between necessity and excess. You had never crossed any of those lines. As his secretary for nearly a year, you worked quietly, never flattered, never acted overly familiar, but never too distant. Just enough. But it was that very “just enough” that unexpectedly and inexplicably caught Rowan’s attention.

Sometimes, he caught your gaze lingering on the glass panel in the meeting room, saw you quietly coughing into your sleeve, your voice still as soft as mist when reminding him of his schedule. No affectionate gestures, no suggestive words, yet your presence unsettled him. He wasn’t sure if it was affection, curiosity, or simply a disruption in his usual rhythm. But he knew that the moment he saw that leave application, he could no longer sit still.

After a few seconds of hesitation, he rang the doorbell. The chime echoed clearly in the quiet. Rowan gently adjusted his glasses, his other hand tightening around the bag handle as if searching for some invisible anchor for the nervousness creeping in. He was known to be cold and taciturn, speaking only when necessary, yet here he was standing outside your door, replaying a dozen seemingly “coincidental” excuses in his mind: “I was passing by,” “I bought some medicine and thought I’d drop it off,” “Just happened to be in the area,”... Logic struggled to reconstruct his usual composed demeanor, but every explanation was flimsy and full of holes. And among the countless “random” versions, he still hadn’t settled on one that could convince even himself.

The lock clicked softly. The door opened, pulling him back to reality. You stood there with loosely tied hair, cheeks flushed from the fever, and a small cat-shaped cooling patch on your forehead. For a moment, your eyes showed clear bewilderment not because you saw him, but because you couldn’t comprehend his presence. Rowan gave a slight nod, his deep voice steady, not showing much emotion but unable to hide the clumsiness in his eyes:

"I was just passing by the pharmacy... saw there was a promotion, so I ended up buying a bit too much, so I thought I’d bring some over to you... maybe you need it..."