CHAPTER 27: CHAPTER 27- OLDER MAN

She turned her head to glance outside the window.

At some point, a light drizzle had begun to fall. The weather had already cooled with the arrival of early autumn, and now, with the rain, the chill seemed to deepen — one layer colder with each autumn rain, as the saying went.

Catherine looked down at her thin chiffon blouse and felt a sudden shiver run through her body.

When she left the house at noon, the weather had still been fine. She thought she’d finish the interview quickly and return home soon, so she hadn’t brought a coat.

If she caught a cold now, both she and Renata would end up sick...

She was already exhausted even when perfectly healthy. The thought of falling ill while still needing to take care of Renata made her heart sink.

Biting her lip, she hesitated for a moment before glancing at the man across from her. His brows were slightly furrowed, a trace of impatience flickering in his eyes. Without another word, Catherine quietly reached out and pulled his suit jacket back around her shoulders.

Fine. She was afraid of getting sick at a time like this.

And besides—he was simply too domineering. That single frown of his was enough to make her give in.

When he saw her put the jacket back on, Bert picked up his briefcase and stood. Without sparing her a glance, he turned and walked toward the exit. Catherine followed silently, gathering her own things.

Outside, the rain had grown heavier. The two of them stopped beneath the eaves of the café.

Catherine wasn’t sure what to do next. His jacket still draped over her shoulders, she felt as though every ounce of control had slipped from her grasp, so she chose to remain silent.

They stood there quietly until Bert finally turned to her and asked,

"Heading to the hospital?"

"Mm..." She nodded softly.

Without a word, he handed his briefcase to her, his voice deep and composed as it brushed past her ear.

"Wait here. I’ll get the car."

Before Catherine could react, he had already stepped into the rain.

His tall, lean figure moved through the misty drizzle with a calm, effortless grace. Others without umbrellas hurried by, shielding their heads and darting for cover, but he showed no sign of haste—only a subtle quickening of his usual steady stride.

Catherine stood beneath the eaves, wrapped in his jacket, clutching his briefcase, her heart a tangled mess.

His scent lingered all over her — clean and crisp, yet edged with the quiet depth of a mature man. He himself was calm and composed; even his belongings seemed to carry that same reassuring air.

After a while, her face began to grow warm again.

This was the first time she’d ever been wrapped in another man’s jacket... holding his things like this.

Moments later, his car pulled up to the curb. The window on her side rolled down, revealing his face through the rain.

The black car gleamed beneath the drizzle, sleek and understated.

Catherine hurried through the rain, opened the door, and slipped inside. She couldn’t help murmuring softly,

"Thank you..."

It was obvious he intended to drive her back to the hospital. And honestly—other than "thank you," she didn’t know what else to say.

Somehow, it felt wrong for them to be this close, this naturally connected, so she clung to politeness as the only barrier she could maintain.

He said nothing in return, just rolled the window up and drove off into the rain.

After fastening her seatbelt, Catherine turned slightly to place his briefcase on the back seat. It felt strange to keep holding it in her lap. She also loosened the jacket around her shoulders — it wasn’t that cold inside the car anymore.

Leaning between the seats, she stretched her arm back to settle both items in place. But just as she straightened again, the car lurched to a sudden stop.

Caught off guard, she stumbled forward, her cheek brushing against his shoulder — her hand instinctively pressed against his chest for balance. Beneath her palm, she felt the solid strength of his muscles through his shirt...

When she realized what had just happened, Catherine nearly wanted to disappear into thin air. She quickly pulled her hand away, face burning red.

"I—I’m sorry..."

He didn’t seem to care much, answering casually,

"An accident up ahead. Traffic’s going to be slow for a while."

Catherine looked forward and saw the cause: two cars had skidded in the rain and collided, blocking the lane.

Their car crept forward at a snail’s pace. Inside the quiet cabin, neither of them spoke—

and in that kind of silence, it was far too easy for feelings to start taking shape.

To ease the awkward silence, Catherine took out her phone and called Renata back.

"Mom, I was in the interview just now—it only just finished. That’s why I didn’t answer your call earlier."

Her voice was calm, but her fingers betrayed her nerves, fidgeting with the folder that held her résumé. Lying always made her uneasy, and this time was no exception.

Renata knew Catherine had gone out for an interview that afternoon, so she didn’t question it. She only reminded her not to rush back to the hospital in the rain, to drive carefully because the roads would be slippery.

Catherine responded to each concern obediently, then deliberately asked a few more questions about Renata’s condition—trying to stretch out the conversation, anything to pass the long, uncomfortable time stuck in traffic.

Otherwise, once the call ended, she’d be alone in the car with him again... and the atmosphere between them was already far too strange.

They weren’t in any kind of relationship, yet somehow they’d done so many things that blurred that line—

He’d been called her boyfriend.

She’d been introduced as his girlfriend in front of his blind date.

How could any of this make sense between two people who were practically strangers?

So Catherine kept her tone gentle and warm as she chatted with Renata about trivial things, until Renata finally got a little impatient and ended the call herself.

Catherine was still thinking of ways to drag it out longer when, suddenly, the man beside her started coughing—several times, and loud enough to make her jump.

Startled, Catherine hurried to cover the phone’s microphone, but it was too late. Renata had already heard.

"Who’s that? I heard a man’s voice," Renata asked suspiciously.

Catherine’s heart skipped. She stammered quickly,

"Oh, I’m on the bus! There’s an older man sitting next to me—he sounds like he’s caught a cold..."

Renata seemed satisfied with that and simply reminded her again to stay safe before hanging up.

Once the line disconnected, Catherine turned, glaring furiously at the man beside her.

He had done that on purpose—coughing right then, just so her mother would hear a man’s voice and get the wrong idea.

What was his problem? Her call had nothing to do with him!

Feeling her gaze on him, he turned his head slightly, feigning innocence as he said,

"My throat just got a little itchy."

Catherine let out a sharp huff and turned to stare out the rain-streaked window. But she’d seen it—there was the faintest trace of mischief glimmering in his eyes.

She gave up. She knew she’d never win against someone like him. He had that calm, foxlike air of a man too experienced to be easily ruffled, and she had no interest in walking herself into another verbal trap.

Just as she thought things might finally settle down, his voice came again—lazy, teasing:

"’Older man,’ huh? Do I really look that old to you?"

There was unmistakable displeasure in his tone, and now it was Catherine’s turn to feel uneasy.

She’d only blurted that out earlier because Renata had pressed her—she hadn’t meant it at all.

"I was just saying that casually," she hurried to explain. "You’re not old. Not at all..."

Under normal circumstances, that should’ve been enough. Most men would’ve let it go—whether they truly minded or not, they’d at least give the girl a way out.

But not him.

He nodded with deliberate seriousness, then said in that low, calm voice of his,

"Casual words often reveal what someone really thinks. So, deep down, you do think I’m old."

His words were firm, his gaze unwavering, burning into her.

"I don’t—"

Catherine tried to deny it, but her voice faltered. Her eyes darted away, unable to meet his.

Because the worst part was... what he said did make sense.

It was true that the more casually something slipped out, the more it tended to reflect one’s real thoughts. And his confidence—the certainty in his tone—made her explanations feel weak and meaningless.

So in the end, she just gave up trying to argue.

Honestly, she did think he was older. At least in his thirties—maybe thirty-two or thirty-three...

He said nothing more after that, his attention returning to the road ahead.

Catherine bit her lip, glancing at him quietly. Had she actually made him angry?

Wasn’t it supposed to be women who minded being called old?

Since when did men care so much about their age?

And yet—he clearly did.