Under his control

CHAPTER 6 Messages After Midnight

Location: My Apartment

The apartment was too quiet.

The kitchen light was the only one on, and the city beyond the window looked like a distant promise—one I wasn’t part of. I dropped my bag on a chair, slipped off my shoes, and stood still for a few seconds, as if waiting for someone to tell me what came next.

My phone was on the table.

I hadn’t checked it since leaving the building. Not because I didn’t want to.

Because I knew exactly what I was looking for.

I only touched it after pouring myself a glass of water. The screen lit up instantly.

1 new message.

00:17.

From him.

A cold shiver slid down my spine, followed by a slow, guilty warmth. It was ridiculous. Just a message. And yet my body reacted as if he had called me back.

I opened it.

You got home.

Not a question.

I sat on the edge of the table, phone in hand, staring at the screen for a few seconds as if my silence were a small act of rebellion.

Yes.

The reply came immediately.

Good.

One word. Dry. Controlled.

I tightened my grip on the phone more than necessary. I told myself that was it. Just a strange professional habit. It meant nothing.

The phone vibrated again.

You’re tired.

Not a question.

I took a deep breath and typed:

A little.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

You pushed yourself.

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

You asked for a lot.

The reply took a few seconds this time. Longer.

I asked for exactly what you could handle.

I bit my lip. The way he phrased it wasn’t accidental. It didn’t sound like a professional assessment.

It sounded intimate.

How do you know? I typed.

Pause.

Longer this time.

Because you didn’t stop.

I set the phone down and walked toward the window. The city was alive, but I felt trapped in something much smaller—the screen, that conversation, him.

The phone vibrated again.

I told you not to get used to staying for me.

I felt a sudden flicker of irritation.

I didn’t stay for you.

The answer came almost instantly.

You’re a bad liar.

My heart beat faster.

That’s not a professional rule.

No, he replied.

It’s a personal one.

I closed my eyes.

That was the problem. The line he kept drawing without seeming to. Professional. Personal. Blurred in a way that was never explicit, yet always there.

I should sleep, I typed.

Three dots. Pause.

You should.

Seconds passed. I waited, even though I didn’t want to admit that. When the phone didn’t vibrate, I felt… frustrated.

Then it did.

Tell me what made you hesitate today.

I leaned against the window frame.

What do you mean?

The moment you wanted to leave my office and didn’t.

My stomach tightened.

It was nothing.

Pause.

It wasn’t.

My pulse quickened.

Why does it matter?

His reply came slower. Calculated.

Because that’s where attachment begins.

The word hit like a slap.

Attachment.

Cold. Clean. Written without visible emotion.

You’re exaggerating, I typed.

No.

I recognize it.

I set the phone down again, as if physical distance could soften the impact. But the word remained, echoing.

Attachment.

I picked it up.

And what do you do when you recognize it?

This time the pause was long. Long enough for me to realize I was holding my breath.

I control it.

A slow, deep shiver ran through me. It wasn’t pure fear. It was something more dangerous.

Curiosity.

Good night, I typed abruptly.

The answer came instantly.

Good night.

Then, a second later:

Don’t overthink.

I laughed silently.

Because it was already too late.

I left the phone on the nightstand and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My body was exhausted, but my mind was sharp, tense, filled with him. His words. The way he always knew exactly what to say without ever saying anything directly.

When I finally closed my eyes, my last clear thought was this:

He wasn’t just a boss sending late-night messages.

He was someone slipping, slowly and methodically, into the spaces where I was supposed to be alone.

And a part of me… was making room.