Hey you baby boy

Being in my mid-20s felt like drowning.
‎Family asking when I'll settle down. Friends throwing blind dates like lifelines.
‎And me? Buried in spreadsheets, because work doesn't ask questions.
‎
‎"Kianna, yung report. Deadline today."
‎I ran to the manager's office with papers shaking in my hands.
‎That's when I saw him. By the window. Glasses. School bag. Not the manager.
‎He turned. Calm eyes. Too young for this building.
‎"I'm Darrel." A pause. "The CEO's son."
‎I shook his hand. "Kianna."
‎My palm didn't stop trembling after.
‎
‎After that, he was everywhere.
‎At the corner, watching. At my desk, reading over my shoulder. In the manager's office, signing things he shouldn't be old enough to sign.
‎I told myself it was curiosity.
‎It wasn't. It was him.
‎
‎It was past 9PM. The building was empty. Just me, the hum of my computer, and the rain outside.
‎Knock. Gentle. Hard. Gentle.
‎I opened the door.
‎He stumbled in. Uniform rumpled. Smelled like whiskey and rain.
‎I put him on the sofa. "You're drunk, Darrel."
‎He didn't answer.
‎
‎Then a sound behind me.
‎"Kia-rra."
‎Not a boy's voice anymore. Lower. Tired.
‎When I turned, he wasn't slumped on the sofa. He was standing. Sleeves rolled up. Jaw tight. Eyes too clear for someone who was drunk a minute ago.
‎He spun my chair around.
‎And he kissed me like he'd been holding it in for months.
‎I should've said no. I should've pushed him away.
‎But my hands were already on his shirt.
‎On the sofa, under the fluorescent lights, with the whole city dark outside, we broke every rule I had.
‎"Hey you, baby boy," I whispered against his mouth, and he laughed - not sweet this time. Rough. Like he knew exactly what we were doing.
‎
‎Now?
‎He's the CEO.
‎I'm his secretary.
‎We smile in meetings. We sign documents. We act professional.
‎And when the lights go out and the office is empty again...
‎I lean in and say it, every single time:
‎"Hey you, baby boy."
‎
‎We're good at keeping secrets.
‎