Once the secret was out, the office transformed overnight.
People smiled at me like I was suddenly part of a fairy tale.
People smiled at Sebastian like they had just discovered their intimidating CEO was, beneath all the sharp tailoring and impossible standards, embarrassingly in love.
The worst part for him was that the whispers no longer stopped when he walked by.
They just changed direction.
I caught two assistants in the hallway one morning.
“So he really waited outside her apartment?”
“With flowers.”
“No.”
“Yes. And coffee.”
When they saw me, they squealed and ran.
I laughed all the way to my desk.
Dating Sebastian officially was not what I expected.
He was attentive, reserved, and somehow even more considerate than before. He remembered tiny things I had mentioned once in passing. Which tea I liked. Which bakery made the pastries I bought on stressful mornings. Which side of the movie theater I preferred because the air-conditioning didn’t hit as hard there.
He also looked at me like I was a miracle.
That part I was still learning how to survive.
One evening, after we finished dinner at his apartment, I found the pen sitting in a velvet tray beside his watch.
“You kept the box,” I said.
He looked up from the kitchen. “Of course I did.”
I picked up the pen and turned it slowly in my fingers.
“You know,” I said, “most people buy flowers when they’re in love.”
He came closer, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can buy flowers too.”
“You bought a magical emotional hazard.”
“It worked.”
I laughed. “That is not a defense.”
He stopped in front of me, gaze dropping to my hand around the pen.
His voice softened.
“Emily.”
“Hm?”
“If you’re about to use that to get revenge for something, at least warn me.”
I tilted my head. “Why would I want revenge?”
His expression turned almost offended.
“Because I made you spend weeks wondering how I felt.”
“That’s true,” I admitted. “You did.”
He exhaled like a man awaiting judgment.
The comments drifted lazily by.
He’d let her get away with anything.
That much was obvious.
I set the pen down on the table and stepped closer.
“You know what your real problem is?” I asked.
His hand settled at my waist. “What?”
“You think I need grand proof.”
He went still.
“But I don’t,” I said. “I just need honesty.”
Something changed in his face at that.
A quiet understanding.
A promise.
Then he kissed my forehead so tenderly it nearly hurt.
“I can do honesty,” he said.
And he did.
From then on, he stopped hiding behind careful half-steps and indirect gestures. If he missed me, he said it. If he wanted to see me, he asked. If I was upset, he didn’t pretend not to notice.
I learned him too.
Learned that his silence wasn’t distance. It was caution.
Learned that his composure was not emptiness. It was control so ingrained he didn’t always know how to set it down.
Learned that when he loved, he loved with his entire life arranged around protecting the thing he cared about.
One rainy Saturday, curled up on his couch under a blanket with the city blurred beyond the windows, I looked over at him and asked, “Do you ever regret giving me the pen?”
He glanced up from his book.
“Never.”
“Not even once?”
He closed the book and leaned toward me.
“Emily,” he said, “the worst decision of my life would have been letting you leave my world without knowing how I felt.”
The comments, for once, had nothing clever to add.
Neither did I.
I just leaned into him and listened to the rain.