Chapter 4: No Strings, No Promises
1948 Words
I avoided him all weekend.
No calls. No messages. I even muted our work group chat, pretending I needed “me time,” but really—I was spiraling.
I kissed my boss.
Correction: I made out with my boss. Again.
This time, sober. This time, knowing who he was. This time, knowing exactly what it would mean if I let it happen again.
But even with that knowledge, I kept replaying the way his lips felt against mine.
How he didn’t rush it.
How he held back like he was giving me control.
It was the kind of kiss that haunted people.
The kind that told you this wasn’t just some passing crush.
And I hated that I didn’t hate it.
---
Monday came, and the minute I walked into the office, I regretted everything.
Because he was already there.
Looking crisp in a button-down and slacks. Sleeves rolled up. No tie. Hair still slightly damp.
Unfair levels of attractive.
And worse?
He looked calm. Like he didn’t spend the weekend overthinking the way I did.
I barely made it to my desk before his voice caught me off guard.
“Sofia. A word?”
I looked up slowly. “Now?”
He gave a short nod and turned toward his office.
The room spun a little as I followed him in.
He didn’t close the door completely, just left it half-open like he was trying to be professional.
He leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed.
“We should talk about Friday.”
I stood awkwardly near the doorway. “We don’t have to. If we pretend it didn’t happen—”
“I don’t want to pretend,” he said.
I looked at him, heart doing flips.
“I just want to be clear,” he continued. “I’m not expecting anything. But I’m not going to lie and say I regret it either.”
I stayed quiet.
“I want you to feel safe here,” he said. “If that means drawing a line, I’ll respect it.”
“Do you always make out with people you’re willing to respect?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He smirked. “Not usually.”
God, this man.
“I need this job,” I whispered.
“You’ve got the job. That’s not going to change.”
I hesitated. “So… what now?”
He looked thoughtful. “We don’t label it. We don’t force anything. If something happens again, it happens. If it doesn’t, that’s fine too.”
“No promises?” I asked.
“No strings,” he said.
And stupid me—I agreed.
---
We went back to normal. Or tried to.
But “normal” now included lingering glances during meetings, subtle inside jokes, and the occasional text past midnight that started with “You still up?” and ended with “Can’t stop thinking about Friday.”
I kept telling myself we were just flirting.
That I was still in control.
Until the team got invited to a company gala.
Fancy venue. Open bar. Everyone dressed up like it was prom night for adults with stress and deadlines.
I wore a black slip dress—simple, clean lines, low back. Nothing crazy.
But when I walked in, I felt his eyes find me instantly.
He was at the bar, a glass of scotch in hand. Wearing a black suit that made him look like someone out of a movie. His gaze locked with mine across the crowd.
I felt warm all over.
He didn’t come over right away.
Just watched me. Like he knew I’d come to him.
And I did.
Eventually, I found myself at the bar next to him, ordering a drink I didn’t even want.
“You clean up well,” he said without looking directly at me.
“So do you,” I replied, sipping the champagne.
“You here with anyone?”
I gave him a look. “You know I’m not.”
He smirked. “Had to ask.”
We stood there for a while, just… existing in the same space. Heat between us so strong I felt lightheaded.
Then he leaned in, his voice low. “Dance with me.”
I didn’t answer.
Just let him take my hand.
---
The music was slow. Not cheesy slow, but intimate enough that it made me nervous.
He placed one hand on my waist, the other holding mine. Our bodies close. My heart a mess.
“You keep surprising me,” he said as we swayed.
“How?”
“You’re strong, but soft. Quiet, but not passive. I keep thinking I’ve figured you out and then you shift.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
He chuckled. “It’s addicting.”
I glanced up at him, unsure how to feel.
“You’re not making this easy,” I admitted.
“Do you want easy?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But I don’t want messy either.”
“We’re already messy,” he said.
And I didn’t argue.
Because he was right.
---
We didn’t even make it past the hotel lobby.
He backed me up against the elevator wall, his mouth finding mine before the doors even closed.
I wasn’t drunk.
I wasn’t confused.
I just wanted him.
When we got to his room, he didn’t rush.
He peeled the dress off me slowly, eyes taking their time.
He touched me like he remembered every inch from that first night—but wanted to memorize it again.
His kisses moved from my neck to my collarbone, down my stomach.
Every part of me came alive under his hands.
And when he finally moved inside me, it felt like coming home to a place I didn’t know I’d been missing.
No words. No promises.
Just need.
And the quiet understanding that this—whatever this was—wasn’t simple anymore.
The next morning, I woke up tangled in sheets that weren’t mine, wrapped in warmth that smelled like cedarwood and something I couldn’t name—something that reminded me of him.
He was still asleep.
One arm draped across my waist, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm.
I didn’t want to move.
I wanted to freeze time, pretend this was our normal.
Pretend I was waking up next to someone I could love without consequences.
But it wasn’t that simple.
He wasn’t mine.
And this wasn’t love.
Right?
I slowly sat up, careful not to wake him. My dress was still on the chair where he’d placed it. My heels were tipped over near the door. The evidence of everything we did was scattered all over the room, and it made my chest tight.
Not because I regretted it.
But because I didn’t.
And that scared me.
I grabbed my phone—two missed calls from Bea and one message from her:
“Did you go home with your boss AGAIN?!”
I rolled my eyes. Typical Bea. Psychic even when drunk.
I didn’t reply.
I just slipped out of bed and tiptoed toward the bathroom, needing a second to breathe. To reset.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Smudged eyeliner. Swollen lips. Hair a mess. But what scared me more than my reflection was the look in my own eyes.
Soft. Hopeful.
Like I wanted more.
Like I already cared.
---
He woke up before I left.
Still groggy, hair mussed, voice husky. “Leaving already?”
“I have brunch with my sister,” I lied.
He just nodded and sat up, sheets falling low on his waist, exposing his toned stomach. I swallowed hard.
“Last night was…” he began.
“Complicated,” I cut in. “But good.”
He smirked. “I was gonna say amazing.”
I laughed, even though it hurt.
Because deep down, I knew amazing didn’t mean anything if it came without clarity.
Without a future.
“Thank you,” I whispered, grabbing my clutch. “For the dance. For… everything.”
He didn’t stop me.
Didn’t ask me to stay.
Maybe that was for the best.
---
Back at home, I curled up in bed and slept the whole day.
No dreams. Just a heavy, aching silence.
By the time I dragged myself to the office the next morning, everything felt different.
No more teasing glances.
No more flirty comments.
He was all business—cold, focused, unreadable.
I told myself I wanted that.
Told myself it was what I needed.
But every time he walked past my desk without looking at me, it chipped at something inside me.
Was this what we agreed on?
No strings. No promises.
I guess I didn’t expect “no communication” to be part of the deal.
---
A week passed.
Then two.
We worked like nothing happened. Like I wasn’t wearing his shirt the morning after the gala. Like he didn’t tell me I surprised him in ways he wasn’t ready for.
Then, one Friday afternoon, he called me into his office.
My heart leaped into my throat, stupidly hoping for… I don’t even know what.
Closure?
A do-over?
Instead, he just handed me a folder.
“New project. You’ll be the point person. It’s a big one.”
I blinked. “Okay…”
His tone was clipped. Formal.
He didn’t look at me once.
I nodded and turned to leave.
But right before I reached the door, I heard him say quietly, “I’m sorry if I made things messy for you.”
I paused, fingers tightening around the folder.
“It’s fine,” I said without turning back. “I knew what I was getting into.”
Then I walked out before my voice cracked.
---
Later that night, Bea dragged me out for drinks. Again.
“You need a reset,” she said. “A palette cleanser.”
“I’m not wine, Bea.”
“No, but you’re acting like you’ve aged twenty years in a week. Come on.”
We ended up at some rooftop bar in Makati.
Lights glowing. Chill music playing. Cold air brushing against our skin.
I sipped my drink slowly, trying not to think about how my boss kissed better than any man I’d ever met.
“You’re in too deep,” Bea said, reading my mind. “That’s why it hurts.”
I sighed. “It wasn’t supposed to be serious.”
“It never is. Until it is.”
I looked up at the sky, hoping the stars would give me answers.
They didn’t.
---
The next Monday, everything shifted again.
Because he dropped a bombshell.
He was going to Cebu.
For a month.
New client. New campaign. And I was going with him.
“You’ll be staying in the same hotel,” HR told me. “Separate rooms, of course.”
I laughed bitterly. “Of course.”
I packed that night with shaking hands.
I didn’t know if I was afraid of what might happen in Cebu—or what might not.
---
We landed late.
The hotel was beautiful, sleek and modern, overlooking the sea.
He barely spoke to me the whole day.
We had dinner with the clients, went over timelines, discussed campaign pitches.
It was all professional.
Polite.
Tense.
By the time I got to my room, I was ready to scream.
But a knock on my door made my heart stutter.
I opened it slowly.
He was standing there, hands in his pockets, looking tired.
“We need to talk,” he said.
I stepped aside.
Let him in.
Because deep down, I wanted to hear everything he wasn’t saying.
- Writer
