Sweet Romance14 min read
The Morning I Woke Up in My Boss's Bed — and the Stinky Tofu That Followed
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"I woke up and the first face I saw was Cillian's."
"It can't be," I whispered.
"You pinched me an hour ago." Cillian's voice was low, not unkind, but it made my skin crawl.
"No—no way," I said, and my fingers scrapped my arm. "I was dreaming. It doesn't hurt, right? It was just a dream."
"You pinched my arm," he repeated, and then he smiled a little—an odd, private smile that made me wish for cover.
"I—" I clamped my mouth shut. "How did I even—"
"Drink less next time," he said. "Or call me before you get too brave."
"I wasn't brave. I..." I couldn't finish. My cheeks burned. I pushed my foot against the bed to kick him away and sent him tumbling. He gave a muffled grunt and blinked at me, one eyebrow arching like a question.
"You're awake?" he asked.
"Yes. Of course I'm awake."
"You remember anything?" he asked.
"Not much. I—" My chest tightened. "I might have blacked out."
"Good," he said, and slid his hand inside the duvet. "I have evidence."
He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and threw it at me like a dare. The screen showed a video. I watched myself on the footage—clumsy, loud, stumbling, then suddenly fierce. I saw my hands on his collar, my face close to his, me laughing, me slurring words I couldn't believe:
"You're a monster," I said, more to myself than to him. "You can't tell Nova."
"Why should I tell Nova?" he asked, amused. "She's my niece's best friend, right?"
"No!" I begged. "Please don't tell Nova. She'll—"
"She'll what?" Cillian asked. "Kill you?"
"Yes," I said, because Nova could be a storm when she wanted to be. "She'll kill me."
He made a slow noise—part laugh, part appraisal. "You look scared."
"Because I am." I swallowed hard. "This—this can't happen. Please, Cillian, please don't say anything."
He flicked his eyes to my throat where there were faint marks. "And the marks?"
"I—I must have done that," I said, humiliated. "Please. Don't tell Nova. Please."
He leaned in close and breathed on my ear, careful enough to set my skin on fire. "Do you remember what you said last night?"
"No."
"Do you remember kissing me?"
"I—" I couldn't answer. My stomach dropped like a stone.
"Well," he said softly, "I remember."
I yelped. "You—what? You recorded it?"
He smiled again. "The living room camera has better angles than you'd expect."
"You're awful." I shoved him; it did nothing. "You could have thrown the phone away."
"I could," he said. "But I'm not that cruel."
"Then please."
"Alright," he said, and the word had a gentle weight that made me too hopeful for my own good. "I'll tell Nova something that won't hurt you."
"Thank you." I breathed. "Thank you."
He watched me with those careful eyes. "Wear clothes."
I grabbed at the duvet and wrapped it around myself. "Are you kidding? My bra—"
"The bra is probably in the suitcase," he said, deadpan. "Get in the bathroom."
I fled to the bathroom and took a bath that felt like performance art: rushed, clumsy, with hair still damp and my heart slamming. Of course I'd forgotten my spare bra. Of course I had no dignity left. My phone buzzed—Nova calling. I hung up without answering and listened to her angry voicemail instead.
"Ainsley, where are you? Did you sleep at work? Call me back. We have plans."
I messaged back a shaky, "Sorry, late night," and then dressed and left Cillian's apartment with my dignity clutched in the folds of a too-large sweater.
When I went downstairs, Cillian was back under the duvet like nothing happened, hair messily falling across his forehead and the barest hint of a smile on his mouth. He lifted his head and studied me, like someone reading a page with familiar dirt smudges.
"You should've pushed me off a cliff," I muttered as I crossed the room.
"Why?" he asked, rolling onto his elbow.
"Because then you wouldn't be a walking tape recorder," I snapped.
He shrugged. "Would you have liked it better if I weren't?"
"I would have liked not to be the punchline of some office gossip."
"Don't worry." He paused. "I'll be discreet."
"Why would you? You're my boss."
"Yes," he said, and his voice turned sharp for a moment. "Your boss. So do your work properly and this will never happen again."
That was the Cillian everyone in the office feared: clean lines, cold jokes, an efficiency that cut like metal. He was the kind of man who made spreadsheets feel like punishments. But then there were the moments—tiny, accidental—that made my heart stutter. A hand hovering where mine shook as I reached for documents. A looser tie when he thought no one was looking. A smile in the car when the streetlights passed like slow applause. I told myself it was silly. I told myself I would never be the kind of person who fell for an office myth.
"You're late," he said the next morning, but he didn't make me stand in front of everyone and sweating like I had made a crime of the century.
"Traffic," I mumbled.
"You missed your desk assignment," he said. "Lend me your brain for an afternoon."
"I don't possess a spare," I returned.
He slid a stack of spreadsheets across my desk the minute I sat down. "This needs to be reconciled by tonight."
"By tonight?" I said, looking at the mountain of numbers.
"Tonight," he repeated, looking like stone. "I'll be here. Don't finish at six."
I sighed and got to work. It was soul-crushingly dull and exactly the kind of job that made me measure time by coffee cycles. I kept remembering the kiss in fragments and a stupid part of me wanted to ask if it meant anything. A larger part of me wanted to set a fire to my embarrassment and run away.
At lunch Nova texted: "Lunch in twenty. Help, don't die at work." I typed back: "I might actually die." She replied with a laughing emoji and a heart, and for a stunned second I remembered why Nova was Nova: loud, loyal, fierce.
That night Cillian asked, "Stinky tofu or bland noodles?"
"Stinky tofu," I said without thinking. "You don't like it."
"It's honest food," he said. "Lead the way."
He called at the booth and drove us to the night market. Small lights blinked, and the smell of frying food wrapped around us like a cloak. He walked like someone who was sure the pavement belonged to him—long, easy strides. I followed shuffle-steps behind, clutching a paper bag full of the scent I loved.
"You big city folk..." he said, making a small face. "This place is loud."
"You like loud," I said. "You like me."
He made a noise. "You hear things," he said softly.
"You just said you wanted to eat 'you'," I said, stunned at myself for saying it out loud.
"What did I say?" he asked, eyes on the road.
"You said 'you'," I repeated, and heat rushed up my neck.
He didn't correct me; he didn't deny it either. That small absence of denial made my chest go soft and wobble. I told myself—again—that I was being childish. He was a man with authority and an entire company at his heels. We were from different worlds. It didn't matter that sometimes he unbuttoned his collar when he thought no one saw, or that he shoved his phone into his pocket and stared a little too long at the city.
"By the way," he said as we walked back toward his car, "you can live at my place tonight. Nova's not around."
"No," I said, because I could list thirty reasons, but the simplest was: "Because I have boundaries."
"Fine," he said, "be stubborn." Then he stopped and turned. "If you don't want to be my guest, you can at least stop calling me 'sir' with that defeated tone."
I wanted to laugh. Instead I said, "I will consider it an offer."
He reached for my wrist and pretended to check a pulse. "Decision time then."
We were ridiculous. We were ridiculous together. He leaned in and kissed me—not the drunken, clumsy film in my head, but a slow, measured thing that felt like permission. When he pulled away he smiled near my ear and said, "Sleep. We both work early."
When the morning came, I was late. Which meant I rushed into the office and faced a hum of colleagues who had already formed their own small weather system about me.
"Is that Ainsley?" someone said. "Isn't she the one who crashed at Cillian's apartment?"
"She's his new girlfriend," another voice offered.
"She better be. He's smooth blood money," someone else snickered.
I sat down and hid behind numbers until Cillian beckoned me into his office. He closed the door and said, "I hear Madame Rumor is entertaining the staff."
"I didn't do anything to—"
"Do you want the rumor to be true?"
"No."
"Then do your work," he said. "And stop reading your texts at your desk."
"You were the one who called me in last night," I said. "If I leave, everything disappears."
"You're dramatic," he said.
"Maybe," I said back, "but I'm your dramatic problem."
He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "You're getting paid more for this month. Consider it a bribe."
"A thousand?" I said, eyeballs wide.
"A much better number than you'd expect," he replied with a small grin. "You pull this off and you'll want to keep working late."
Money can fix some things. Money definitely fixed my feelings for like three hours. That night I finished the mountain of work at three in the morning, and when I left the office I expected him to say something sharp. Instead he spoke in a tone that softened the whole world.
"Do you know why I didn't tell Nova?" he asked.
"No," I said. "You said you would."
"I said I'd protect you," he said. "Because I like that you are honest when you're flustered. I like that you eat stinky tofu like it's a treasure. I like that you argue and then apologize on the same breath."
I almost laughed. "You have a lot of likes."
"I have better things than likes," he said, and then he said, "Do you want to come by tonight? We'll order something ordinary."
"I—" I hesitated.
"Come," he said. "If not for me, for the tofu."
It was silly. It was childish. But it felt like the beginning of crooked, promising things—like a small plant pushing through concrete.
Then the day came when Nova came back early from her trip, that same fierce friend wielding gossip like a weapon. She grabbed my wrist and whispered, "You survived?"
"Barely," I said, because she had set this whole thing in motion, and a small bitter part of me wanted to see her blush.
"Good," she said. "By the way, did you hear? Cillian has someone. She thinks she's special."
"Nova—"
"Relax," she said. "I'll protect you."
"Protect me from what?" I asked.
"From embarrassment," she said. "And from making bad choices."
I didn't ask any more questions. But later, when a woman with precise hair and a bright laugh sashayed out of Cillian's office—Mercedes Curtis—and announced in a honey-coated voice, "Hello, I'm Cillian's girlfriend," my breath froze.
"Excuse me?" I heard myself say.
Mercedes smiled like a queen. "I just wanted to meet the famous office 'romance.'"
"She's lying," I told Cillian later, because I couldn't breathe. "You have a girlfriend?"
"She has confidence," he said slowly. "And a flair for theatrics."
"Nova told me she helped set things up." I felt the ground drop.
"She did?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, voice trembling. "She told me she wanted me to have a chance with you and said she'd play a part. I didn't think—"
"You didn't think, because you trusted your friend," he said.
"Is that a crime?" I snapped, furious and ashamed and heartbroken all at once.
"Not a crime," he said. "An error in judgment."
"Nova—" I called.
She came into the kitchen, wearing that same smug smile. "What? Did my plan work?"
"You set me up," I said. "You made me a joke."
"It was to make you try," she said quickly. "You always hesitate. I wanted to fix that."
"By lying to me?" I demanded.
"By nudging you," she countered. "You love to be pushed."
"I don't need your tests," I said. "I need honesty."
The whole house fell quiet. Cillian watched us both like a judge.
"Look," he said, "I admit I played my part too. But the woman you saw—Mercedes—was helping me gauge things."
"Helping you gauge things?" I repeated.
"Yes." He looked at Mercedes. "She helped us."
"You asked her to pretend to be your girlfriend," I said, feeling cold.
"I wanted to see how you'd react," he said. "Because you always run from things that look complicated."
"That's manipulative," I said.
"It was a test," he said, "and you failed it in the nicest way."
"Failed?" I shouted. "I wasn't trying to be your test subject!"
"Then it's my fault," he said more softly. "I shouldn't have set this up behind your back."
"I can't believe I thought—" I started.
"You thought he had feelings," Nova said flatly. "You did."
"Did you think telling me later would make any of this better?" I asked Nova.
She stiffened. "I thought you'd appreciate the push."
"Appreciate?" I echoed.
There was a long, sluggish pause. Words were heavy, and they hadn't fixed anything yet. For a while, nothing made sense. I felt foolish, used—then suddenly wrong-footed because even though I had been led, I still thought of the moments when Cillian had been genuinely kind.
"I'll go," Mercedes said with a polite bow. "Apologies if I caused a scene."
"I didn't ask for your apology," I said.
She left. So did Nova, at first. Then she came back with a face that looked like someone who suddenly understood they'd broken something.
"Ainsley," she said quietly, "I'm sorry."
"Sorry?" I asked. "You put me in the center of gossip."
"I thought—" she stammered. "I thought it would help you."
"It did worse," I said.
And then—because the story insists on public reckoning, because betrayal can't just flicker into private regret—everything changed.
A week later, the office arranged a quarterly presentation where all the departments had to show their achievements. It swarmed with managers, clients, junior staff, and a handful of vendors. I had been working on one of the analytics reports tied to the presentation. Cillian had scheduled me to walk the room through one slide. It felt like stepping onto a stage.
"Relax," Cillian told me before I went up. "Be you."
"Don't be you," I muttered. "Be somebody with fewer scars."
He smiled. "Just be you."
I took the podium. The lights were bright, and my throat was dry. My slides clicked, my voice wavered at first, then steadied. The data flowed like a river—proof that I'd done the job and done it well. People clapped. I felt like I could breathe again.
Then Cillian stepped to the mic.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Before our break, I have something to clear up."
There was a ripple, like wind through tall grass.
"I need to address a rumor," he continued. "A rumor about relationships in this office."
"Oh no," I thought. My stomach dropped.
"We have integrity rules," he said. "And we have responsibility." He looked directly at the front row where Mercedes sat, and at a side table where Nova, who had come to watch, shifted like a guilty animal.
"Two weeks ago," he said, "a staged scene was played out to test someone's feelings. That is not corporate policy. That is not how we treat colleagues."
My heart thudded. "Are you going to fire someone?" I hissed under my breath.
"No," he said, soft enough that only I heard. "But people need to understand consequences."
He clicked the remote. A video started. It was footage from the lobby camera—a short montage of Nova and Mercedes whispering, planning, then a clip of Mercedes walking into Cillian's office smiling like a conqueror. The room watched. Faces shifted. Chairs creaked. Gasps murmured like a small earthquake.
"Cillian?" someone called from the back. "Is this—"
"It is," he said. "This video shows an orchestrated attempt to manipulate workplace dynamics."
"Why are you showing this?" Mercedes said, standing up, face draining color.
"Because this isn't a private quarrel," Cillian said. "This is the company. We cannot allow personal schemes to influence professional lives. We cannot let people become the stage for others' jokes."
Mercedes's eyes flashed. "You set this up too."
"I did," he admitted. "But I did it wrong. I apologize. Yet responsibility is shared."
"You're making a big deal," Mercedes protested, voice thin.
"Isn't it?" Cillian asked. "One person used deceit. Another made it happen. Both actions created discomfort for an innocent colleague."
Someone at the back muttered, "Who is the innocent colleague?"
"This one," Cillian said, pointing at me. "Ainsley Franklin. She did her job even through chaos."
The room broke into soft applause. I felt my cheeks go hot and cold simultaneously.
Mercedes tried to protest, "This is humiliating—"
"You're right," Cillian said. "It is. You're about to find out something worse. Integrity matters at this company. People who breach it will have their actions recorded in HR files. People who weaponize relationships can't expect special treatment."
Mercedes's lips trembled. The vendor beside her said, "That's rough."
Nova's face had gone pale. "Cillian—"
"Nova, you pushed a narrative," he said quietly. "You matched private life to public perception. You owe Ainsley a public apology."
"No," Nova said before she could think. "No, it's complicated—"
"Is it?" Cillian asked. "Or is it about control?"
"You promised you'd help me," she whispered.
"I promised many things," he said. "I also promised to be better than this."
He stepped down, walked to the front row, and placed his hand on the small of my back—a gesture that was unexpectedly protective and completely public.
"Everyone here has seen the video," he said plainly. "You can judge. But I'd like to offer a path forward. Nova will stand and apologize to Ainsley now."
"No—" Nova started.
"Now," Cillian insisted. "Not later. Now."
Nova's eyes filled. She swallowed and then, in a small, broken voice, said, "Ainsley, I'm sorry. I wanted to help. I wanted you to stop hesitating, but I went about it the wrong way. I'm sorry."
"You lied to me," I said, voice sharp and trembling. "You used my life like a test."
"I—it was selfish," she said. "I wanted to see you try. I didn't think it would hurt."
"It did," I said. "Don't minimize it."
The room watched her shrink. People shifted in their seats, whispering. Edgar from accounting walked up to the front and said, "That was immature, Nova. You know better."
"I do," she said, almost sobbing. "I do."
Mercedes tried to collect herself, but Cillian clicked the remote again and this time a different set of images played: brief texts where Mercedes celebrated the plan; a message from someone congratulating Nova for 'playing the part'; a short clip of Mercedes laughing like it was a sport. The air turned colder.
"That's enough," Mercedes snapped. "You are ganging up on me."
"No," Cillian said. "We're asking you to own what happened."
There was a loud intake of breath when Mercedes began to shake. "You don't understand. I—"
"You helped set someone up," a woman at the back said. "That's bad enough."
"You're making a scene," Mercedes hissed, tears leaking now. "This is all wrong."
"Do you remember how you felt when someone joked about your career?" Cillian asked, quiet.
Mercedes couldn't answer. Her face crumbled. She blurted, "I thought I could be part of something. I thought I could be useful to someone powerful."
"You're useful to yourself," Cillian said with a terrible clarity.
People in the room murmured. Some reached for their phones. Someone recorded. Some eyes were sympathetic; some were cold.
Mercedes's composure dissolved. "I'm sorry," she cried. "I'm sorry, Ainsley. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You meant to," I said. "You wanted to win."
"I wanted to help," she sobbed. "Forgive me, please."
Around us, the company buzzed like a hive turned on its side. People came up in groups, whispering; a few clapped; others took photos. Nova folded into herself and wept quietly, a humiliated lion.
"This isn't a verdict," Cillian said, stepping back to the microphone. "But this is an example. We work in a place where trust matters. If we break trust, we must make thoughtful amends. Nova will undertake a public apology, and Mercedes will meet with HR to work through consequences."
"Do you think that's enough?" someone asked.
"It will be a start," Cillian said. "And Ainsley will decide how she wants to move forward."
After the meeting, Nova pressed her face into my shoulder and kept saying, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She seemed smaller than before, like someone had shaved off the edges of her arrogance.
Mercedes didn't show up the next day. The rumor mill lit up like a bonfire. People whispered about the grande humiliation. Some sympathized with her; others condemned her. A few said that she had deserved more than embarrassment for taking pleasure in someone else's confusion. For a while, the office was a place where whispers were currency.
"What happened to her?" I asked Cillian days later.
"She left town for a while," he said. "She asked for time. HR handled the rest."
"And Nova?"
"Nova's been doing extra work to make amends," he said. "She volunteered to help junior staff and own the social calendar for charity projects. She apologized to the team."
"Public humiliation can be a heavy weight," I said. "Was that the right punishment?"
"People need to learn consequences," he answered. "But shame only works if it leads to change."
I thought of that a lot. I thought of the taste of stinky tofu on my tongue and the way my heart started when he looked my way. I thought of Nova, who had crossed a line because she loved me badly and clumsily. I thought of Mercedes, who had wanted to climb for something and hurt someone on the way up.
In the weeks that followed, things settled into a new rhythm. Nova and I rebuilt trust slowly, like hands weaving new fabric. She learned to ask instead of stage, to push but not manipulate.
Cillian and I—well, we tread carefully.
"Do you regret it?" I asked him one evening when we were back at the night market and the streetlight shone over a paper plate of tofu.
"Regret what?" he asked.
"All of it," I said. "The tests. The camera. The kiss."
He looked at me for a long time. "I regret hurting you," he said finally. "I regret being a man who thinks a plan is a better path than a conversation."
"Do you mean that?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, and his voice was the honest kind—quiet and small and very human. "I will do better."
"How will I trust you?"
"Actions," he said. "Not promises."
He reached across the table and picked the corner of my napkin the same way someone used to pick at strings on a sweater. "And you?" he asked. "How will I trust you after you slept on my couch and pinched me?"
"I will stop pinching," I said. "And I will tell you when I'm frightened."
"That's a start."
We sat in a small, comfortable silence, the kind that builds when both people decide to try again.
"One more thing," he said after a moment. "Don't ever tell anyone I like stinky tofu."
I laughed. "I won't tell, but I will remember the smell forever."
He smiled. "Good. Keep that memory for me."
The night market hummed, the people moved like a tide, and the smell of fried tofu hung around us like a small, stubborn promise.
The End
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