The meeting room's sterile atmosphere pressed against my skin as I sat at the polished conference table, my gaze inevitably drawn to the man at the head of it all. My boss. The secret I'd harbored for months, tucked away in the corners of my heart like a treasured photograph. He typically led a different department, but for this particular project, fate had temporarily placed him in charge of our team.

An introvert by nature, painfully shy in social situations, yet unfairly blessed with looks that defied his reserved demeanor. Today he wore a crisp white shirt that seemed to catch the fluorescent lighting in just the right way, emphasizing the broad set of his shoulders and the lean frame I'd imagined more times than I cared to admit.

Throughout the meeting, our eyes would occasionally graze each other across the table—a fleeting connection that sent electricity coursing through my veins. Each time, he would brush it off with remarkable subtlety, suddenly finding something fascinating in his notes or adjusting his glasses as if the contact had never occurred.

"Miss Aahana," he said, his voice pulling me from my reverie, "what are your opinions on the proposal?"

My heart skipped a beat. Oh, shit. I hadn't been paying attention to a word he'd said for the past ten minutes, completely lost in the study of his profile—the way his jaw tightened when concentrating, how his fingers would tap impatiently against the table's surface.

"It's good," I managed, hoping the vagueness would pass as thoughtful consideration. "But I need to think more about the implementation details."

He paused for a second, his eyes scanning my face with an unreadable expression before nodding slowly and closing his folder with a soft thud that echoed in the quiet room.

"Then let's take a break," he announced to the room. "Tomorrow we will continue same as today."

The room emptied quickly, chairs scraping against the floor in a hurried exodus. Footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than before, filled with unspoken words and possibilities.

I stood up, my movements deliberate as I approached his position at the head of the table. He backed out instinctively, his shoulder almost touching the whiteboard behind him, creating a small space between us that was both intimate and charged with tension.

I had never hidden my intentions from him—not completely. The lingering looks that lasted a second too long, the small smiles that weren't entirely professional. He never reciprocated openly, never encouraged my advances with words or actions. But he never told me to back off completely either, never created a boundary that said unequivocally "no."

"You're looking handsome today, boss," I said, my voice softer than I intended.

"T-thank you," he replied, the slight stutter betraying his composure as his fingers tightened around the file in his hand.

Whenever I heard that stutter—the way his words would catch slightly when flustered, revealing the softer man beneath the professional exterior—I wanted nothing more than to grab him by the collar of that crisp white shirt and kiss him relentlessly until all that shyness melted away.

I took another step forward, trapping him between the wall and me, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.

"Tell me, boss," I whispered, my voice low and intimate. "Do you like me?"

He didn't answer. Just stood there, his ears turning a shade of pink that betrayed his indifference, his eyes fixed on something just beyond my shoulder as if the whiteboard held the secrets of the universe.

I leaned in closer, my lips nearly brushing against the shell of his ear, my breath warm against his skin.

"Tonight at seven. Eleven bar. Don't keep me waiting."

And with that, I turned and walked away, not looking back even though every fiber of my being screamed to know his reaction.

I reached home and instantly started picking out a dress for the night, my heart still racing from our encounter. Nothing in my closet felt right. Too much, too little, too obvious, too subtle. I finally chose something simple but sharp—a deep navy dress that fell just above my knees, something that said I was serious without begging for attention.

Evening came faster than expected, probably because I spent every minute thinking about him. Wondering if he would actually show up. Wondering if I had imagined every stuttered word and flushed cheek, reading into professional courtesy what was merely discomfort at my forwardness.

I reached the bar at seven sharp, my palms slightly damp with anticipation despite the cool evening air.

I didn't have to wait. He was already there.

He was leaning against the counter in casual clothes—a fitted dark t-shirt that clung to his shoulders in all the right ways and worn denim jeans that hung perfectly on his lean frame. Damn. He looked good. The fabric clung to him just enough that I could see the outline of his lean chest, the narrow line of his waist that I'd only imagined before.

He looked up when I walked in, his drink frozen halfway to his lips, and for a second he just stared, his expression unreadable but his eyes telling me everything I needed to know.

"You came," he said, his voice softer than in the office, stripped of its professional formality and tinged with something that sounded remarkably like wonder.