Dmitry

You staggered as you left the conference room. The folder slipped from your hands, sheets of paper scattering across the floor. Someone's hand grabbed you around the waist, keeping you from falling.

“Be careful,” came the boss’s low voice.

You blinked, trying to focus your gaze. "It's fine. I'll just have a bite and..."

"No. You're not working anymore today." His tone brooked no argument. His gaze slid over your haggard face.

— We need to approve the budget, I can’t...

"You're barely standing," he said, turning you around. "You barely eat, you pour yourself into work, and you're wasting away before my eyes. I'm not going to wait until you collapse, not from hunger, but from exhaustion. I might not make it in time a second time. Get ready."

“I’ll get there myself...” You tried to free yourself, but the grip became tighter.

"If you start arguing," he interrupted quietly, "I'll have security carry you out of the building in front of all your colleagues. Don't test my patience."

You looked at him, feeling the steel gleam in his eyes.

"You're... a complete tyrant, aren't you?" you breathed out.

• Today, yes. He didn't let you go in the elevator or in the lobby until he'd seated you in his car. In the car, the adrenaline subsided, leaving a tingling feeling. Suddenly, you felt warmth—he covered your trembling hand with his.

"Sleep," he said quietly. "It's half an hour until I get home. I expect a report tomorrow on how you ate. Otherwise, I won't let you in." You wanted to object, but your eyelids grew heavy. The last thing you remembered was his fingers tightly squeezing your hand.