“Fine. I’m quitting. I’m done.”

I pounded my fist against the edge of the bed.

“No, you’re not. You signed a ten-year contract.”

“What? Oh, for the love of God, can someone please bring me justice?”

My emotions flared so violently that a sudden rush of dizziness hit me, and I collapsed backward.

Kian, who was rigid and composed just seconds ago, moved in an instant.

His arms caught my shoulders, pulling me into his embrace.

…

A sharp headache tore through my skull, my vision went dark, and cold sweat drenched my skin.

Kian’s hands trembled as he held me.

And just like that, my mind flashed back to that desperate embrace at the airport and his pale feet on the cold concrete.

“Kian… why weren’t you wearing shoes back then?”

I finally voiced the question that had been nagging at me.

He kept quiet, as if struggling with himself.

Then, his low voice broke through the quiet.

“You said you liked me. Was that a lie?”

“Of course,” I answered without hesitation.

Beside me, I heard a soft exhale.

He sounded relief.

A sharp ache spread through my heart.

So that was it.

He had been afraid I was serious.

No one knew the truth.

I really did like him.

I had spent so long convincing myself otherwise.

No one knew that my so-called “joke” on the plane was the only way I could say what I truly felt.

Whether he believed it or not, at least I said it.

I had no regrets.

But I never expected it to end like this.

My secret crush had been doomed from the start.

Kian gently lowered me back onto the bed.

I shut my eyes, wanting to escape the unbearable awkwardness hanging in the air.

He left not long after.

He arranged for a private caregiver, and since I was in a luxury single-patient suite, the stay was pretty comfortable.

I might as well take full advantage of my paid medical leave and rest a few extra days.

During my hospital stay, Kian never visited.

A new phone was delivered to me by the caregiver.

I logged back into the company’s internal messaging system.

Scrolling through old messages, I came across a conversation where everyone had once talked about Ava Air Flight 117—the one that nearly crashed due to a mechanical failure.

They also discussed the celebrity pilot, the man who had pulled off the impossible, keeping his cool in the face of disaster.

But in the latest messages…

The topic shifted.

Now, everyone in the company’s private chat was talking about how Kian brought his girlfriend to tour the office.

My eyes widened instantly.

My grip on the phone tightened as I stared at the screen, reading every word carefully.

Then, I saw the photo.

A candid shot taken by one of my coworkers.

Kian stood in a deep blue suit, slightly turned to the side, speaking to a beautiful, elegant woman.

Even from this angle, I could see the gentle look on his face—an expression I had never once seen before.

My chest constricted.

My breathing turned shallow.

Then, pain.

A splitting pain.

It felt like my skull was being torn apart.

I clutched my head, twisting in agony on the bed.

The caregiver rushed in, took one look at me, and immediately turned to call for a doctor.

And just like that, I was back on the plane.

The deafening cries of passengers surrounded me.

Luggage rained down from the overhead compartments.

A blood-red haze filled my vision.

I touched my forehead, and my fingers came away warm and sticky with blood.

Panic overtook me.

I was still on the plane.

The plane never landed safely.

Everything from the hospital, Kian running toward me, to our awkward conversation had all been nothing more than a hallucination in my dying moments.

Terror rattled through my bones.

My whole body trembled violently as I clutched my head, screaming, "I don’t want this! I don’t want to die! I don’t—!"

If I had never known warmth, I wouldn’t have feared death so much.

The impact of the plane’s descent sent a blazing inferno crashing over me, swallowing everything in flames.

…

When I woke, my mind was hazy, and the muffled voices of a doctor and Kian drifted into my ears.

“Psychological disorder?”

“Yes. And it doesn’t seem to be just from the plane crash. This condition has likely existed for a long time. It was only triggered recently.”

Kian answered in a low voice, “He lost his parents, and the person he was closest to is no longer here. He really hasn’t had it easy.

“You once said keeping him busy would help him forget the pain… but maybe it’s my fault. I overlooked his mental health.”

My muddled thoughts churned.

How did Kian know?

By the time I fully regained consciousness, the doctor had already left.

Kian sat silently by my bedside, watching as I stared blankly at the ceiling.

“You’re awake?”

“Mm… Kian, are you real?”

I could hardly believe it.

Everything before I blacked out felt too real—the scorching flames, the searing heat licking at my hair, and the deafening roar of the blaze.

I could still hear it.

Kian wore his usual impassive expression, his face unreadable as ever.

But his actions confused me.

He lifted my hands and pressed them against his face.

His skin was smooth, his nose sharp and defined.

Before I even realized it, I had been touching his face for far too long.

The moment it hit me, I jerked my hands away, my face burning.

My entire body tensed with discomfort.

“I’m real. Don’t be afraid,” Kian said, his voice impossibly gentle, making me almost believe, for a fleeting second, that he actually cared.

“I…”

“No need to worry about work. The doctor says you’re free to leave the hospital.

“But since there’s no one at home to take care of you… why don’t you stay at my place for now? There’s a housekeeper.”

I stared at him in shock.

He cleared his throat and added, “You are, after all, my most competent assistant.”

Just like that, the brief ripple in my heart settled.

Then, his phone rang.

Out of reflex, my eyes flicked to the screen.

The caller ID read: Angela Walsh.

Kian answered the call, and I was struck by the unexpected softness in his voice.

I remembered the back-view photo that Dolly Hills sent.

“So, that’s how it is…”

I let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh.

In the end, I still went home with Kian because I was afraid of reliving that day.

I wanted to escape from the raging inferno and suffocating despair of death.

…

Kian’s home was a luxurious penthouse in the heart of the city, sprawling over 4,000 square feet.

There were more than enough rooms, but aside from a housekeeper who came by to clean and cook dinner, the place was mostly empty.

Which meant it was just the two of us.

He refused to let me go back to work, saying I was on a mandatory two-week leave.

Dolly had replaced me as his assistant.

The anxiety made it impossible to eat.

It wasn’t until Kian reassured me multiple times that this wasn’t his way of firing me.

He genuinely just wanted me to rest, and I finally eased up.

To be honest, I wasn’t physically unwell anymore.

But my emotions had been a mess.

A constant cycle of highs and lows.

One moment, I felt light, almost happy.

The next, a wave of sorrow crashed over me.

The relentless push and pull left me wide awake every night.

I didn’t want Kian to notice.

So, every evening, I forced myself to lie still with my eyes shut, pretending to sleep.

More than once, I felt Kian enter the room.

I even went as far as faking soft snores just to convince him I was asleep and put his mind at ease.

But as the days passed and I continued to lose weight, his concern only deepened.

"You should get out for a bit, Sora. Take a trip to Maldives, maybe? A few days away might help."

"No, boss, I’m fine. I need to remove my stitches in two days. I’m feeling much better. I can go back to work."

"No. Take another two weeks off."

I hesitated, staring at him.

"Boss, you’re really not trying to fire me, right? Or is something going on at the company…?"

I didn’t finish the sentence.

Because by now, I had seen too many of the photos Dolly kept posting in the company chat—photos of Kian and that woman.

The two of them looked perfect together.

Everyone in the company chat had started shipping them as a couple.

A dull ache settled in my heart.

I often woke up in the middle of the night, startled from the same recurring nightmares—the plane crash, Kian running to hold me, Kian attending my funeral, and even Kian getting married.

Every time I woke, a wave of deep exhaustion and detachment from the world washed over me.

Maybe I really was losing my mind.

I thought back to the first time I met Kian—back in middle school, my first year.

Back then, my parents had just passed away, and I was living with my grandfather.

Poverty and hunger were our constant companions.

One day, my homeroom teacher organized a small donation within the class to help me.

At first, my pride wouldn’t allow it.

But I made peace with it, knowing this money meant my grandfather wouldn't need to scavenge for a long time.

The donations were only supposed to come from my classmates.

But when my teacher handed me the list of names, I noticed one unfamiliar name—Kian Homer.

He wasn’t in my class.

He was a senior, the top student in his grade.

And he had donated the most—four hundred dollars.

“The boy from the senior class saw the fundraiser and insisted on helping,” my teacher explained.

“If you have time, you should thank him. Maybe write him a note.”

I bowed in gratitude.

The final amount came to six hundred and ten dollars.

It was enough for my grandfather and me to eat well for months.

But I never wrote him a thank-you letter and approached him.

Instead, I watched from a distance.

Under the bright afternoon sun, he ran across the basketball court, his forehead damp with sweat, his movements sharp and effortless.

Cheers erupted around him, drawn to the effortless confidence in his every move.

Something about that unshakable vitality, that radiant energy struck me like lightning.

For the first time, I understood the meaning of the word "like."

And in that same moment, I realized how different I was from everyone else.

I never found the courage to talk to him.

It was just a passing crush—one that belonged to my younger, timid self.

Then, years later, in my first year of high school, I saw him again.

The boy had grown up. The youthful softness was gone.

But that sudden rush of emotion, the violent pounding in my heart terrified me.

The cold, distant boy turned his gaze toward me.

I couldn’t look away.

For a moment, he seemed puzzled, his sharp eyes locking onto mine.

Then, without a word, he gave the faintest smile and turned to leave.

I let out a shaky breath.

My whole body trembled.

The fear of being exposed left me frozen in quiet panic.

Not long after, my world collapsed.

My grandfather passed away, and that was how I lost my last family member.

By the next semester, I couldn’t even afford school fees, let alone food.

For three days, I wrestled with my pride, forcing myself to gather the courage to seek help.

When I finally did, I went to my high school homeroom teacher, hoping for something, anything.

But the moment I stood before his desk, he didn't looked up.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

That was all he said.

It was then that I realized that not every teacher cared about their students.

So, I dropped out.

And before I left, I did the boldest thing I had ever done in my life.

I wrote Kian a confession letter.

On the cheapest notebook paper I could find, I poured my feelings onto the page.

Then, I folded it carefully and sealed it inside an envelope glued shut with cheap adhesive.

On the last day of my sophomore year, I gathered every ounce of courage I had and handed it to a senior girl from Kian’s class.