Chapter 12: How Am I Supposed to Be Professional When His Chest Is Everywhere?

I'm a professional.

I show up on time. I hold boom mics. I adjust audio levels.

I do not, under any circumstances, mentally strip my co-worker in front of everyone.

…Except when his damn shirt is unbuttoned **again**.

---

Wardrobe said, *"Just one button open for the vibe."*

Ren said nothing.

Ren obeyed.

Ren walked onto set with two buttons open, collar wide, chest out like a softcore magazine cover.

And me?

I dropped my clipboard.

---

"Everything okay, Noa?" the director asked.

"Yup," I said, already squatting to grab the clipboard, already trying not to scream.

Behind me, Ren laughed.

Low. Quiet. **Intentional.**

I turned around. "You think this is funny?"

His eyes didn't blink. "I think you're cute when you're flustered."

EXCUSE ME?

---

Cut to lunch break. I grabbed my food and tried to escape to the back lot.

Guess who followed?

"You didn't eat much," he said, sitting too close on the bench.

"That's because I spent most of my energy trying not to stare at your nipples," I snapped.

He paused. Smiled.

"Would it help if I buttoned up?"

"Yes."

He reached up. Slowly.

Deliberately.

Unbuttoned one more.

---

I choked.

"You're evil."

"You're adorable."

"Ren, I am literally trying to have a career."

"So am I."

I stared at him. His chest. His smirk. His entire everything.

"How are you so calm all the time?"

"I'm not," he said. "I'm just patient."

---

God help me.

I wanted to kiss him. Punch him. Maybe both.

"Go away," I muttered, half-laughing, half-suffering.

He stood. Leaned down by my ear.

"I'll button up," he whispered.

"After you admit it turns you on."

---

And then—he walked away.

Shirt still open.

Me still feral.

How am I supposed to be professional when his chest is **literally** everywhere?

I am one exposed collarbone away from a workplace scandal.

The rain started like a whisper.

By the time we stepped outside the studio, it had turned biblical.

I stared at the sky like it personally betrayed me. "Great. Awesome. The universe wants me wet."

Ren looked at me. No expression. Then held out a tiny, apologetic umbrella.

"One," he said.

"You brought **one** umbrella?" I blinked. "What are you, a minimalist or a menace?"

"I didn't expect to be escorting chaos tonight," he replied, deadpan.

---

We stood there for three solid seconds before I sighed.

"Fine. We share."

"Obviously."

He opened it. I stepped in.

Immediate regret.

The umbrella was small. Cheap. Barely enough for one emotionally stable adult.

Which neither of us were.

---

His arm brushed mine.

His breath touched my cheek.

His hand—barely a centimeter from mine, both of us gripping the umbrella handle like it was a bomb.

My bag knocked into his thigh.

"Sorry," I said, adjusting.

He didn't move. Just said, "You smell like citrus."

"I—what?"

"Shampoo?" he added. "It's nice."

Was this flirting? Was this nothing?

Was my skin melting?

---

We kept walking.

The sidewalk was narrow, uneven. Water splashed up with every step.

My shoes were soaked. My soul was damp.

Ren's shoulder brushed mine again. His voice was lower now.

"You cold?"

I nodded. Mistake.

He moved in. Closer.

His body was warm. His breath warmer.

I felt every molecule of air between us shrinking.

---

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes," I lied. "Fine."

Then silence.

Not awkward. Not tense.

**Loaded.**

The kind of silence that makes you aware of everything—his scent, his presence, his accidental dominance of all your brain functions.

I made the mistake of looking up.

He was already looking down.

---

Our faces were **this** close.

Nose to nose. Breath to breath.

I was not okay.

My heart was doing jazz drum solos. My legs were soup.

If he leaned down an inch—

"STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT," I snapped.

He blinked. "Like what?"

"Like you're about to kiss me but won't."

He grinned. Actual grin.

"Who says I won't?"

---

I stopped walking.

So did he.

The umbrella trembled slightly from the tension.

"You wouldn't," I challenged.

He took one tiny step forward.

I could feel heat radiating off his chest. His shirt was still slightly damp. His eyes—locked on mine.

"If I did," he said quietly, "would you let me?"

I opened my mouth.

No words came out.

Just then—

**HONK.**

A scooter delivery guy screamed past us, water exploding all over our legs.

I yelped. Ren instinctively pulled me in.

Chest to chest. Hand to waist. Umbrella gone. Forgotten.

My breath hitched.

So did his.

---

We stayed like that.

In the rain. On the sidewalk. With the smell of fried rice and traffic fumes in the air.

His forehead touched mine.

I couldn't think. Not properly.

My voice came out small. "This is insane."

"I know," he said.

"But it doesn't feel wrong," I whispered.

He looked at me like I was the center of gravity.

"No. It doesn't."

---

Then he stepped back.

Just a bit.

Enough to hand me the umbrella.

"You take it," he said. "I'll run."

I stared at him. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "I need to cool off anyway."

"Why?"

He looked over his shoulder, walking backward.

"Because if I stay another minute, I'm kissing you in front of that warung."

He turned and jogged off—shirt sticking to his back, rain hitting him like a movie scene.

And me?

I stood there, wet, breathless, heart pounding.

Still holding the damn umbrella.

---

I watched him disappear around the corner, adrenaline flooding every part of me that used to be rational.

One umbrella.

Two breaths.

Zero distance.

And **still** no kiss.

Someone get me a therapist. Or a taser. Or a time machine.