Sweet Romance12 min read
My Mild Chaos and the Boss Who Liked My Videos
ButterPicks13 views
"I can't believe I'm here," I said before I opened the office door.
"You're late," Grayson muttered, but his mouth curled like he was enjoying the drama. "And you uploaded a roast video again?"
"I uploaded a roast video again," I admitted.
"Of who this time?" someone off-camera asked, but it was just me talking into my phone. My secret account loved to roast our company. "Just a little vent. It's anonymous."
"Anonymous," Grayson repeated, "but the boss liked every clip for a month."
I stopped. "He did what?"
"He liked them. Every single one," Grayson said and made that face people make when they expect the punchline.
I froze with my locker half open. "Why are you telling me?"
"Because A—" Grayson started, then cut himself off when Anibal Brantley walked into the corridor like he owned the building. The man always looked like the sun had decided to wear a suit that day.
"Morning," Anibal said, and the room stilled like someone paused the world.
"Morning," I answered. My legs trembled, but I smiled because I had no choice.
When he looked back at me later in his office, it felt like the sky had turned its temperature down.
"I watched your video," he said simply, and a clip on his laptop played—my own laugh, ridiculous and weird, echoing through a room that wasn't mine.
"It was a joke," I gasped. "I was just—"
"Which coat did I wear?" he asked, and I realized with a cold page-flip that one line in my clip had been about his coat matching the office curtains.
"I—" My cheeks were hot. "It was a joke."
"Just treat me like any colleague," he said, and the words were casual, but the silence after them felt like furniture being rearranged.
"I won't," I lied and fled, because how do you explain that you once hoped a boss who watched you liked you for more than your editing skills?
"You should stop wearing that trench," he added, like he could control what I wore from across the room.
After that day, he avoided me like a new rule. My brain tried to make romance out of small moments, but reality kept folding them into business and strategy.
One lunchtime, I spotted Anibal in the cafeteria. He had a line of senior staff behind him, a small parade that made my heart thump for reasons I couldn't explain. I was chewing the noodle that looked like it could have its own social media account when a coworker shouted, "This one eats like she hasn't seen food in months!"
"What's that?" Anibal asked, amused. His amber eyes landed on me.
"Knife-cut noodles," I managed, with my mouth full and dignity somewhere behind the sugar-coated bun.
He looked at my bowl like he read the menu of my life. "Want a taste?"
I nearly choked. "No, that's—"
He put a piece of shrimp in my bowl with chopsticks.
"You're telling me to steal from the CEO's plate now?" Grayson teased from the table, and I turned fifty shades of mortified.
"Keep it," Anibal said, and the world did a soft blur. He took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves as if that made him less unreachable. "I cook in my office."
"You cook in your office?" I asked, which sounded ridiculous. Who cooked at work? He did. "Can I—can I add you on WeChat?" I asked in a snap-decision, and he nodded like we had just scheduled lunch.
That night I lay on the sofa and counted shrimp. My mother set a bowl of seafood noodle before me. "Are we rich now?" I joked.
"They're gifts," she said. "Remember the neighbor's kid whose father used to sell seafood?"
"I remember," I said, heart oddly heavy. "You promised I'd never marry that boy."
"He grew up. He might be handsome now," she winked, and I flinched as if someone had mentioned my secret file.
"Don't push me into an arranged marriage at midnight," I muttered.
At twenty-two, I had a weird life: part-time content creator, full-time junior staff, and a mother who kept matchmaking like it was a hobby. I also had a secret—my anonymous account had a small cult following because I made silly sketches. One fan called himself "YouAreMyMedicine" and sent me a yacht sticker worth two thousand yuan during a live. After that my nights got weird: followers, gifts, strangers calling me "lullaby," and a sense of money swimming back into my life.
"You're going to spoil the kid," my mother said as she handed me another box of seafood. "Say thank you."
"Okay," I said, but my head was already full of work deadlines.
"We're shooting a promo," Anibal told me later. "You cut videos well. Can you help make the company's online promo?"
"Of course," I lied, because how do you say no when your boss asks you to help? So I picked the place I "accidentally" knew he'd look good in: the rooftop pool.
On the day, he stood under the sun and made every editing choice in me skip like a broken record. He was not an actor but looked like someone who'd been sculpted with sunlight. My camera betrayed me; I took photos that I never dared to set as my lock screen but kept anyway.
"Ready?" he asked. His voice was near my ear, and the air made a tiny electric snap.
"Yes," I whispered, and in my head, it was a thousand clumsy confessions.
After we wrapped, he invited me to the mall. "Do you like this?" He pointed at a necklace that could fund my rent for months.
"It's beautiful," I answered truthfully, and he bought it. I accepted the gift with a polite smile that trembled at the edges.
Back home I found boxes at my door. "Someone brought supplies," my mother said, and then she made a fuss over baby photos from a family friend. I pretended not to hear the part where she tried to set me up again.
Days later, my manager patted me on the shoulder with a smile that betrayed nothing and sent me a message: "Thanks for the promo prep."
I stayed late that night editing, because in my head helping him might mean something. I received a tiny reply: "Thanks, Elliot." He also transferred money, "For tonight's dinner," he wrote, and the screen went dim. I felt a sting of disappointment; maybe he'd thought of me like a favored vendor, not someone to talk to like friends.
I slept at the office desk once too long and woke to his face leaning over me. "You're sleeping here?" he asked.
"Technically... I work late," I mumbled.
"Drink something?" Anibal offered with his phone.
I took the drink like it was a small treaty. We sat there in a quiet war that didn't need words. The hum of monitors was a lullaby.
Later, he handed me a cup of tea and said, "You work well."
"I try," I said.
"Also," he paused. "Don't call me boss outside the office."
"What should I call you?" I asked, and it was the first time I felt foolish for thinking titles meant anything.
"Just Anibal," he said, like a small command. It rewired my insides.
When the company added an intern, Juliana Dodson arrived like a breath. She was flawless on paper, poised and bright, and strangely familiar. We clicked—the kind of single-day friendship that spends the rest of the week in laughter. She wore a bracelet I recognized from a mall visit. She mentioned Anibal was her senior in college, and my stomach sank.
"You two know each other?" I asked one day.
"He's my college senior," Juliana said, eyes down. "We keep in touch."
"Keep in touch," I repeated, each word a small stone in my chest. The idea that he held someone else in a safe pocket unnerved me.
He was kind to both of us. He made tea for me, guided Juliana, and kept his distance like he was juggling glass. The office gossip swirled, but it never landed. I couldn't tell if he was being generous to his team or if he liked us in different ways.
One afternoon, I saw him with Matteo Baker—the same Matteo who had been a pudgy boy years ago and then vanished into a better-looking version of himself. He'd gone viral, he was famous, and he'd invited me to collaborate. On top of everything, the three of us were out hiking and Matteo showed off like a summer teaser. Anibal appeared at the peak, quiet and with a reserved glance.
"Small world," Matteo said, wiping sweat. "I didn't expect both of you here."
"Yeah," I said.
That night the sky was full of drones. Someone tried to make a grand confession and the machines spelled it wrong, but then, perfectly, the drones formed three words above us: I LIKE YOU. My heart did something loud. I tried to laugh it off.
"Who ordered the drones?" I joked.
"Not me," Anibal said, dry as always.
Matteo cursed softly. "I hired them and they messed it up."
"At least they spelled it," Anibal said, and when his hand found mine, it happened like a glitch—firm, warm, accidental. He didn't let go. The stars felt like a punishment.
"Let go," I hissed. "People will see."
"They already do," he whispered, and my face flushed with shame and sudden pride.
After the trip, I crashed. I got sick—feverish, exhausted, and the world blurred. Juliana came by with snacks, and Anibal came to check on me. He made soup that tasted like an apology and a promise.
"You should rest," Anibal said, kneading my shoulders.
"I'm fine," I lied.
"You're not," he replied, and I felt smaller than ever. He kissed my forehead like he closed a file.
Then came the day that split me open.
I had been editing a funny collab for Matteo and me; my follower count spiked. A message popped up: "Sleep?" It was Anibal. My chest fluttered like a bird in a jar.
"I'm downstairs," he wrote.
"You are?" I typed, then walked down. There was Anibal with bags of seafood and a look I didn't know how to read.
"Someone keeps sending you food?" he asked.
"A neighbor," I said. "But thank you."
"I didn't come for food." He inhaled and said something I hadn't expected: "That boy in your last video—you know him well?"
"You mean Matteo?" I laughed.
"Yes."
"I like him," I said quickly, like I could bargain.
He studied me like he was reading a memo. "I see," he said, and the cold that seeped in after that was not from the night air.
"Are you alright?" I asked, feeling like a failure.
"I'm fine." He turned away but then came back. "I'm sorry," he murmured, and I thought he meant the rest.
The next week, something changed. He was quieter, more distant. He sent fewer messages and let my jokes pass unread. I felt like a presenter whose best lines had been edited out.
Then, on a holiday trip, everything blurred and turned sharp at once. Matteo and I hiked; Anibal showed up again—this time with a faded look and a small ache in his eyes. He had been watching us, and I realized that whatever I had guessed about his connections to Juliana might have been one truth in a house of half-truths.
That night, drones spelled I LIKE YOU again. This time, Matteo missed the show. Anibal stood stiff, and my heart misbehaved. He took my hand and didn't let go.
"Why?" I asked, voice low.
"I like you," he said, like one simple audit closing a book. "I like you, Elliot."
"You're dating Juliana," I said, words like a slap.
"I'm not dating her," he said, surprised. "She is an old friend. I never meant to—"
"Then why—" I couldn't finish. My anger and relief were both too big.
"I liked your videos first," he confessed. "I liked how you told honest things. I waited to tell you."
"You waited to tell me what?" I snapped.
"That I liked you," he said. "But I thought you liked Matteo. I thought you'd been happier with someone else. I didn't want to complicate things."
"That's a stupid reason," I hissed.
"Maybe," he said, soft. "But it's true."
I wanted to be furious. Instead I felt like a puppet whose strings had been knotted by misunderstanding.
Back at work, Juliana kept smiling like a sunrise. Matteo kept being Matteo, loud and bright. Anibal and I navigated our new status like two inexperienced sailors.
"Are you… my girlfriend now?" I joked one morning.
"Are you my girlfriend?" he asked back, and then he smiled, and my logic evaporated.
We had small moments that felt enormous. He brought me red sugar tea when I had my time of the month, and his hand brushed mine and stayed. He was protective—never patronizing, but present. He made tea, brought tissues, and occasionally skimmed my videos for fun. He didn't smother; he was simply there.
"Why did you stop liking my videos?" I asked once.
"I didn't stop," he said. "I just started watching you in person."
Those were the heartbeats: him watching alone in our shared elevator, him handing me lunch boxes, him offering spare tissues in a drawer. Those small acts were the secret language of the office.
One afternoon everything cracked.
I found a message on my phone by accident: it was from Matteo, complaining about a drone order. Matteo sent screenshots that showed he'd planned the drone show for me. He'd hired it to prank someone else but it turned into its own confession. I panicked and misread the world again—thought Anibal had a secret cinema of lovers.
I confronted Anibal in front of the hallway, because some hatreds are too public for whispers.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded. "Why did you look like you were hiding things?"
"I wasn't hiding," he said, eyes wide, and then he grabbed my arm. "Listen."
People paused in the corridor. Phones appeared. Anibal straightened and said, loud enough for the office to feel the sting: "Listen to me—this is my mistake. I should have told you sooner."
"Explain," I said, because I wanted to be cruel and clean.
"I thought you liked Matteo," he said. "I misread you. I didn't want to ruin anything." He paused. "And I apologized for that."
"That's it?" I asked. "No grand explanation? No tears? No nothing?"
"Is a simple truth not enough?" he asked with a quiet anger that made people look.
"You're avoiding this," I said, and the room's attention pinched.
Anibal took a breath. "Okay. Let's be clear." The space felt like a conference, but with our feelings as the files on display. "I like you. I didn't date Juliana. The drones were a mess. Matteo—"
Matteo, who had overheard as he walked out of a meeting, looked guilty and stepped forward. "I messed up," he said, and then, to everyone's surprise, he turned his own awkwardness into a public apology. "I thought making a big scene would be funny and romantic. It wasn't."
"You're making this public," I told him, voice shaking. "You embarrassed me."
"You're right," Matteo said, and the office murmured. "I'm sorry. I wanted to make you notice me. I didn't mean to cause anything."
Those around us had phones out. Some laughed nervously. Someone clapped, because people always don't know if they should clap at pain or performance.
The day was a theater. Juliana walked in, looked at our trio, and stood very still.
"Is this about me?" she asked, soft and surprised.
"No," Anibal said. "Not you. Not like that."
"I thought you were dating Anibal," I blurted, and it sounded worse than intended.
"I thought you liked Matteo," Juliana replied. "We misunderstand each other like giant, loud ships."
The office exploded into sympathetic noises and the kind of gossip that moves faster than light.
We sat down in the break room, a messy triangle of honesty. People gathered outside the glass, heads bent like a flock. Someone recorded. Someone whispered, someone judged, someone shared a screenshot.
"You're public now," Grayson said when he came in with a coffee. "Your love life is trending."
"Thanks," I muttered.
Anibal stood and faced the glass where heads were pressed. He crossed his arms and said, very clearly and loudly, "Let me be blunt: You all watched a private misread. But know this—Elliot did nothing wrong."
A silence rode the sentence. A woman in the hallway nodded. Someone else mumbled agreements. The crowd's mood changed, like the wind shifting.
Then one of the senior colleagues, who had been a critic of my videos, stepped forward. "If you're the boss, you must be careful. Work is work and private is private."
Anibal didn't flinch. He said, "I know what boundary to keep. I crossed it with my silence. I will not use my position to intimidate anyone."
This confession, made in public, was not a dramatic fall but a careful correction. People around us reacted—some with applause, some with murmurs, a few with raised eyebrows.
Juliana looked at me. "I'm sorry," she said, and for once her voice wasn't polished. It was honest. "I never intended to be part of a triangle."
"Neither did I," Matteo said. He looked like a boy who had been scolded by the world. "I got carried away."
Anibal took my hand, squeezed it, and said, "I should have told you I liked you earlier. But I'm here. If you want this, I will be honest. Publicly. Privately. Always."
He made the promise loud in front of everyone, and the glare of office lights felt like a courtroom lamp. People whispered. Someone took a picture. My heart felt raw. The word "public" made the ground tremble—because promises in public can be good and terrifying.
"Do you want me to sign a note?" Grayson joked, breaking the tension.
"No," I snapped, then laughed. "Maybe later."
After that, things changed in small but truthful ways. He stopped liking my videos only in secret. Instead, he praised me for my editing in front of others. He brought me red sugar tea when I was tired and never joked about my online persona. He introduced me as Elliot, not "the content girl" or "the one who makes videos." He built a bridge that had two-way traffic.
"Do you still roast the company?" he asked one day.
"Only if it's funny," I said.
"And if it's about me?" he asked.
"If it's about the trench coat," I teased, and he rolled his eyes.
We had heartbeats that mattered: him handing me a bowl of soup in the rain, him quietly taking my camera when I dropped it, him writing a short note and slipping it into my drawer: "Nice cut." I kept it.
One night, I found myself editing a video and thinking, "He's been reading me in the quiet." He surprised me with an old-school paged Polaroid of the pool day. On the back he wrote: "You told the truth to the camera. That's rare." I kept that too.
Months later, the office still whispered about the day the three drones spelled wrong and right and the afternoon Anibal corrected himself publicly. But the gossip became less a knife and more a story in our shared routine.
"I like you," he would say sometimes, and we'd go back to work.
"You're impossible," I told him once, and he kissed me like a man who had practiced nothing and meant everything.
"You're impossible too," he said, and we argued about who was the stubborn one.
At the end of one hectic week, I went back to my little home and my mother asked how things were.
"Busy," I said.
"Is the boss still coming by with soup?" she asked, eyes sharp.
"He does," I admitted, and she smiled like she had a hand in all my mischief.
Before sleep, I scrolled through my messages and paused on one from a fan who used to send me gifts. I replied, "I'll do more live soon." The memory of being anonymous in my own crowd became less heavy.
"There will be more," Anibal said from the doorway. "But only when you're ready."
"Okay," I said, and then louder, "Only if you let me roast you sometimes."
"Deal," he said, smiling, and in a quiet house with a bowl of red sugar tea cooling beside me, I felt pinned in the best way—caught in someone's honest hands.
We stayed there, in the mess of mornings and edits and the occasional drone, living a small public life that had enough privacy to grow. The drones still flew sometimes, and once, on a far calmer night, they spelled the three words properly.
I laughed when I saw them and turned to Anibal. "You and your drone confessions," I teased.
"I prefer the raw version," he said.
"So do I," I said, and he kissed me, not for the cameras, not for the crowd, but because he had learned to say the simple things, loudly and in the wrong places sometimes, but always in the right heart.
The End
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