Dear Roommate Please Stop Being Hot [BL]-Chapter 310: Five Years Later

The conference room smelled faintly of coffee and polished wood.

Morning light slid through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on glass screens and steel edges, turning everything sharp and deliberate.

Luca sat at the head of the table.

Not stiff, not relaxed—balanced.

A tablet rested beneath his palm. His other hand lay flat on the table, fingers still. No tapping. No wasted movement.

Five years had stripped away hesitation and left something quieter behind.

"Let’s start," he said.

Not loud, not forceful—but the room settled anyway.

Department heads lined both sides of the table—finance, operations, regional leads—people who had been in the industry longer than Luca had been an adult. A chair shifted. A laptop closed. Eyes lifted.

"The Q3 numbers look strong," Luca continued, eyes moving briefly to the screen behind him, "but they’re masking inefficiencies we can’t afford to carry forward."

He swiped once. The slide changed.

"Our logistics cost in the southern region increased by twelve percent. That didn’t come from fuel. It came from delayed vendor response and redundant approvals."

A man across the table cleared his throat. "Those delays were unavoidable—"

"They weren’t," Luca said calmly.

He didn’t interrupt. He waited.

"They were procedural," he continued when the man stopped on his own. "And procedures can be corrected."

Silence followed. Focused. Intent.

Luca leaned back just enough to give the room space to think. "We’re expanding fast. That’s good. But growth without refinement is how companies bleed quietly."

Someone nodded. Someone else reached for a pen.

"We streamline approvals," Luca said. "Cut response time by thirty percent. I want a revised workflow proposal by next Monday."

A woman to his right hesitated. "That timeline is... ambitious."

Luca met her gaze. No challenge. No pressure.

"Can it be done?"

She considered it. Then nodded once. "Yes. If we reassign two senior coordinators."

"Do it," Luca said. "I’ll handle the escalation."

That earned a look—measured respect, edged with relief.

Another voice joined in. "And the overseas partnership?"

Luca paused. Just a fraction longer than before.

"We proceed," he said. "With safeguards. Legal joins from the start. If anything feels rushed, we pull back. No exceptions."

The room absorbed that. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t posturing. He was steering.

The meeting moved forward—numbers, projections, quiet disagreements—but Luca stayed present through all of it. Asking the right questions. Redirecting gently. Listening more than he spoke.

When it ended, chairs slid back. People gathered their materials, already mid-discussion about next steps.

One of the board representatives lingered. "You handled that efficiently," he said. "Clear direction. No wasted motion."

"Thank you," Luca replied.

The man studied him for a moment, then nodded and left.

When the room finally emptied, Luca remained seated.

The hum of the building filled the silence. Air conditioning. Distant footsteps. The city beyond the glass, already moving without him.

He loosened his tie—not from exhaustion, just habit—and exhaled.

Executive Director. Strategy. Operations. Decisions that carried weight long after the meeting ended.

He stood, straightened his jacket, and glanced once at the now-empty room before turning off the screen.

Whatever he was building here, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rushed.

It was intentional.

Luca’s office sat one floor above the conference rooms, tucked into the quieter spine of the building.

Glass walls on two sides. Frosted panels where privacy mattered.

The city stretched beyond the windows, softened by height and distance.

He stepped in without breaking stride.

"Morning," his assistant said immediately.

She stood from her desk as he passed, tablet already in hand. Efficient. Mid-thirties. Sharp eyes that missed nothing.

"Morning, Jane," Luca replied, loosening his jacket as he walked.

"You have fifteen minutes before the regional call," she said, falling into step beside him. "Legal sent revisions on the partnership contract. Operations flagged a staffing issue in procurement. And Finance wants clarification on your approval cap."

"Send legal’s revisions to me," Luca said. "Flag anything that shifts liability. Procurement—loop HR in. Finance can keep the current cap. We’ll review after Q4."

Jane’s fingers moved fast across the screen. "Noted."

He stopped at his desk, setting his tablet down. The surface was clean. No framed photos. No clutter.

Just a closed laptop, a neatly stacked file, and a pen aligned perfectly along the edge.

Five years in this office, and it still felt like someone else’s.

"Also," Jane added, "the board requested an update memo by end of day."

Luca nodded. "I’ll draft it after the regional call."

She hesitated, just slightly. "You’ll want coffee?"

He considered it for half a second. "Yes. Thank you."

She smiled once—professional, brief—and returned to her desk.

Luca sat. The chair adjusted automatically to his weight.

He opened his laptop, scanned the first document Jane had sent over.

Legal language. Tight clauses. Nothing alarming, but enough to demand attention.

He read carefully. Not skimming. Not rushing.

A message pinged in the corner of the screen.

Operations: Procurement lead requesting exception on reassignment.

Luca exhaled through his nose. Rolled his shoulders once. Typed.

No exception. Adjust workload. Results matter more than titles.

Send.

Another notification followed.

Finance: Confirming approval authority unchanged?

Confirmed.

He closed that window and returned to the contract.

Knock.

Jane reappeared, setting a mug down beside him. Steam curled faintly into the air.

"Regional call in five," she said.

"Thank you."

She paused. "You handled the meeting well."

Luca didn’t look up right away. "We had good preparation."

She smiled, softer this time. "Still."

Then she stepped back out, leaving the door half-closed.

Luca took a sip of coffee. Strong. Just how he liked it.

He leaned back, eyes lifting to the skyline beyond the glass.

Buildings stacked against one another, ambition layered thick as concrete.

Five years ago, this office would’ve felt intimidating. Heavy. Too large for him.

Now it felt... precise.

He straightened, adjusted his cufflinks, and clicked into the regional call exactly on time.

"Good morning," he said, voice steady. "Let’s begin."

And work moved forward.

The regional call ran longer than scheduled.

By the time it ended, the light outside Luca’s office had shifted—no longer sharp and bright, but angled, softened by late afternoon haze.

The skyline blurred slightly behind the glass, as if the city itself had grown tired.

Luca muted his mic, ended the call, and stayed still for a moment. Not exhausted. Just... full.

He glanced at the clock. 5:47 PM.

His inbox had repopulated while he was speaking.

Follow-ups. Clarifications. A request for a revised projection. He skimmed, flagged what could wait, answered what couldn’t.

A knock came, lighter this time.

"Come in."

Jane stepped in, tablet tucked against her arm. "Board memo received. Legal signed off on the revised clauses. HR confirmed the reassignment."

"Good," Luca said. He closed his laptop, not hurried, not dragging it out. "Anything critical outstanding?"

"Nothing that can’t wait until morning."

He nodded once. "Then let it wait."

She smiled—professional, but warm. "I’ll hold calls."

"Thank you."

She paused at the door. "Have a good evening."

"You too."

When the door closed, the office fell quiet again.

Luca stood and rolled his shoulders, the tension easing in small increments.

He straightened the pen on his desk—out of habit more than necessity—then reached for his jacket.

The fabric slid smoothly over his shoulders. Familiar. Grounding.

He turned off the desk lamp, the screen behind him dimming to black.

The glass walls reflected him faintly now: suit, loosened tie, posture still upright despite the hours.

At the elevator, he waited alone. The soft chime echoed as the doors opened.

He stepped in, watched the numbers descend. Each floor passed in silence.

When the doors opened in the lobby, the air felt different. Cooler. Less filtered.

The building was thinning out. A few employees headed toward the exits, voices low, movements unhurried.

The day was done, even if the work never truly was.

Outside, evening had settled in fully. Streetlights flickered on. Traffic hummed. The city exhaled.

Luca paused at the top of the steps. He adjusted his watch.

Slipped his phone into his pocket without checking it. For once, there was nothing urgent pulling at him.

Home waited. Not as a place to collapse into—but as something steady. Quiet. Real.

He walked toward his car.

Tomorrow would ask more of him.

But tonight—tonight was his.

The engine hummed low, the city’s evening lights reflecting on the windshield.

Ten minutes, no more, from office to apartment.

Luca leaned back in the passenger seat—driver at the wheel, silent and precise.

He let his hands rest on his lap. No urgency, no thoughtless scrolling. Just the faint buzz of tires over asphalt and the occasional blink of a traffic light.

His phone sat in his pocket, ignored. He could check it. See if there were messages. But he didn’t.

Not tonight.

When the car pulled up, the building’s familiar facade rose against the night sky.

The same apartment they’d moved into after leaving Dorm—unchanged, grounded, waiting.

He stepped inside, key turning quietly in the lock.

The apartment greeted him with stillness. Too quiet. Too big for one person. Only the cat moved, tail curling and flicking, brushing softly against the wooden floorboards.

Luca paused. Exhaled, a slow, even breath. Eyes tracing the room.

Empty spaces—chairs tucked neatly, lamps casting soft light. The apartment held memories, but now it felt... paused. Waiting.

He leaned slightly, voice low. "You survived another day, huh?" His gaze met the cat, who responded with a soft, indifferent flick of the tail.

The cat wove between his legs as Luca knelt, placing a small bowl down. He filled it with food, watching the feline’s quiet contentment.

The fridge opened with a hum. Inside, a few scattered leftovers, condiments, a half-empty bottle of sesame oil. He scanned the shelves, then closed it. Nothing would satisfy tonight.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. A few taps. Food ordered. Fast. Efficient. Enough to fill the silence, not the soul.

He leaned against the counter, taking a slow sip of water while the cat settled nearby, tail wrapped neatly around its paws.

The apartment remained quiet. Still. Waiting.

And Luca stood there, alone, letting the silence stretch just long enough before the night swallowed him whole.

The delivery arrived quickly. Too quickly.

Luca thanked the courier, closed the door, and set the paper bag on the counter.

The smell of food filled the kitchen, warm and brief.

He didn’t eat right away.

Instead, he loosened his tie, sliding it free and draping it over the chair. His jacket followed, folded neatly—always neatly. Shoes by the door, aligned without thinking.

The cat watched him from the couch, eyes half-lidded, judging.

"I know," Luca murmured. "Late."

He carried the food to the small dining table, sat, and ate slowly. Not distracted. Just... absent. A few bites, a pause.

When he finished, he cleaned up immediately. No mess left behind. No evidence the day had happened at all.

In the bathroom, the mirror reflected a different version of him. Same face. Sharper now. More composed.

He loosened his collar, fingers brushing briefly at his throat, then turned on the shower.

Steam filled the space. Water hit his shoulders, steady and hot.

He stood there longer than necessary, eyes closed, letting the noise drown out the day. Meetings. Decisions. Voices.

None of them followed him in here.

Later, dressed in a simple shirt and worn lounge pants, he moved back into the living room.

The cat had claimed the arm of the sofa, tail twitching lazily.

Luca sat at the other end.

He reached for a book, opened it, then closed it again after a page. His phone lay face down on the table. It stayed that way.

The clock ticked.

Outside, the city carried on—cars passing, distant laughter, someone else’s life unfolding just beyond the glass.

Luca leaned back, head resting against the couch, eyes on the ceiling.

Five years. So much forward motion. So much quiet waiting.

The cat shifted closer, pressing warm weight against his thigh.

Luca didn’t move.

He just stayed there, in the middle of a life that looked full from the outside—and felt spacious, echoing, patient.

As if something was meant to return.