The hum of the espresso machine was the only sound in the 42nd floor pantry. It was already past nine in the evening, and the building, which usually buzzed with life, was eerily quiet. Most of the employees had left hours ago, but Clara Santiago remained—because Ethan Reyes remained.
Clara poured his coffee with steady hands, the rich aroma filling the small space. She knew he didn't like her fussing over him after hours, but she also knew he hadn't eaten dinner. He rarely did when deadlines piled up.
Balancing the mug carefully, she walked back to his office. Through the glass doors, she could see him, bathed in the glow of his desk lamp, papers spread before him like a battlefield. His jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. His brow furrowed as he scribbled notes in the margins of a report.
Clara hesitated at the door. He looked so different like this—less untouchable, more human. But she reminded herself that she was just his assistant. She pushed the door open gently.
"Coffee, sir," she said softly, placing the mug on the coaster.
"Mm," Ethan murmured without looking up.
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.
"Wait."
Clara froze, heart skipping. Slowly, she turned back. "Yes, sir?"
Ethan leaned back in his chair, his pen tapping against the desk. For a long moment, he just studied her, his expression unreadable. Then he asked, "Why are you still here?"
The question caught her off guard. "I… I couldn't leave while you're still working."
"You don't have to stay late every night," he said flatly.
Clara clasped her hands in front of her, steadying herself. "I know. But if I leave, and you need something, there won't be anyone here to assist you."
His lips curved slightly—not a smile, but something close. "You anticipate everything."
Heat rushed to her cheeks. It was the closest thing to praise she had ever received from him. She lowered her gaze quickly. "It's my job."
For a moment, silence filled the room. Clara felt his eyes on her, heavy, assessing, almost searching. Then he returned to his papers, dismissing the moment.
"You should go home, Clara."
It startled her—he had never called her by her first name before. Not Ms. Santiago. Not assistant. Clara.
Her chest tightened. "I'll go after making sure tomorrow's schedule is set."
He didn't argue, but the faintest crease appeared between his brows, as though he wanted to say more but chose not to.
By the time Clara finished her tasks, it was nearly ten-thirty. She gathered her things quietly, but when she glanced through the glass doors, Ethan was still at his desk, staring at his laptop screen with a frown.
She hesitated, then knocked softly.
"Come in," he said.
Clara stepped inside. "Sir… it's late. You've been working since dawn. Maybe you should rest."
His eyes flicked up, dark and sharp. For a moment, she thought she had overstepped. But instead of scolding her, he leaned back and sighed—a sound so weary it tugged at her heart.
"I can't," he murmured. "Not tonight."
Clara bit her lip, then gathered her courage. "Then… maybe a short break. Even just fifteen minutes."
Ethan studied her, as if weighing the suggestion. Finally, to her surprise, he pushed back his chair and stood. "All right. Fifteen minutes."
Her heart leapt, though she kept her expression composed.
"Where do you want to go?" she asked carefully.
He raised an eyebrow. "Where do you usually go at this hour?"
The question startled her, but she answered honestly. "There's a café a few blocks away that's still open. I sometimes stop there on weekends."
Ethan nodded once. "Lead the way."
The café was quiet, its warm lights spilling onto the street. A few students hunched over laptops, a couple chatted in the corner, but otherwise it was empty. Clara and Ethan slipped into a booth by the window.
Ethan didn't order coffee—Clara noticed he simply requested water—but she ordered chamomile tea for herself, more for comfort than habit.
For a while, they sat in silence. Clara stole glances at him across the table. He looked different here, away from the tower of glass and steel, without the weight of a dozen eyes watching his every move. Less like the CEO, more like… a man.
"You come here often?" Ethan asked suddenly, his gaze fixed on her.
Clara nodded. "Yes. It's quiet. And the tea helps me relax."
He tilted his head slightly, as though trying to understand. "Relaxation… something I seem to have forgotten."
She smiled faintly, though her heart ached at the truth in his words. "You should try, sir. Even machines need maintenance."
To her surprise, the corner of his lips twitched upward—a ghost of a smile. "You're comparing me to a machine now?"
Clara flushed. "I-I didn't mean—"
"I know." His gaze softened, just a fraction. "It's… refreshing to hear."
Her chest fluttered. She quickly took a sip of tea to hide the warmth rising in her cheeks.
For the next fifteen minutes, they didn't talk about business, or reports, or deadlines. Instead, they spoke about small things—the café's décor, the rainy season, even a stray cat that lingered outside the window. Ethan's voice, when he wasn't in CEO mode, was quieter, smoother, and Clara found herself memorizing the sound.
All too soon, Ethan glanced at his watch. "Time's up."
Clara nodded, though a pang of disappointment tugged at her. "We should head back."
As they stood, Ethan paused. For a moment, he looked at her—not as his assistant, not as someone who kept his life organized, but as a woman. His gaze lingered just a second too long before he turned toward the door.
On the walk back, Clara's heart wouldn't stop racing. She told herself it was nothing, just a rare moment of humanity from a man too guarded to show it often. But deep inside, she knew the truth.
It was the beginning of something she had never dared to hope for.
And though Ethan returned to his usual silence, Clara carried that night with her like a secret flame.
Because for the first time, she had seen a glimpse beyond the office.
And she wanted more.