This review may contain spoilers
Beyond the office rom-com: guilt, responsibility, and the growth of Cher (and Gun)
- What it seems vs. what it really tells:
On paper, it looks like a classic GMMTV rom-com: bubbly intern, stern CEO, glossy office. In reality, the moment the story steps outside the workplace and takes us into Cher’s past and hometown, it becomes something else: a tale of undeserved guilt, chosen responsibility, and the weight of other people’s judgment. The love story is there—and it works especially in the second half—but it’s a means, not the end.
- Cher: from “class clown” to someone who carries the weight (SPOILERS):
The emotional core is Cher’s storyline with the girl from his village he once loved, and her younger brother. Back home, many people despise him; they see him as partly responsible for a tragedy that happened to her. In truth, Cher isn’t at fault—and yet he chooses to shoulder part of the stigma to protect her younger brother, who would otherwise be crushed by it.
This choice rewrites the character: behind the chatty, sunshine persona stands someone who absorbs other people’s hate, acts as a lightning rod, and takes on burdens that aren’t his—simply to avoid leaving someone he cares about alone. That’s where the series stops being a workplace game and becomes a portrait of moral responsibility. If you focus only on the “cute couple,” you miss this—and that’s a pity, because it’s the backbone of Cher’s arc.
- Gun: control, shame, silence… and then a choice:
Gun isn’t just “the boss.” Early on, he copes with his position through control and silence: being a gay CEO in an environment full of scrutiny makes him fear judgment, hide, and keep things quiet (he even manages his insomnia with Cher’s ASMR before letting him truly into his life).
The turning point happens outside the office: when Gun follows Cher into his world, he listens, puts himself at service, and shows up for him and his family. That’s where he moves from distant superior to present partner. He doesn’t “save” Cher; he stands with him—and that difference is huge.
- The relationship: it breathes once it leaves the office:
Inside the company, their relationship is ethically thorny (boss/intern is slippery terrain no matter what). Outside, the center of gravity shifts: in the village and through family crises, they meet as equals. Cher drops the perpetual-performer act and allows himself to be vulnerable; Gun lowers his guard and learns to follow, not only lead.
Even the romantic rhythm makes sense from this angle: the steps forward and backward, the decision to pause so Cher can finish university and then come back on clear terms (“let’s be together—but not as ‘the boss and his intern’”) read as narrative coherence, not whim.
- Why the “village” plot isn’t filler:
Some dismiss it as a detour that “steals time from the couple.” I see the opposite: it gives the couple meaning.
1. It explains why Cher behaves the way he does (the smile as armor).
2. It forces Gun out of his habitat and makes him choose the person over the role.
3. It shifts the theme from romantic fantasy to everyday choice: caring, shouldering, staying even when it’s uncomfortable.
- Where the show stumbles (let’s not pretend it doesn’t):
1. Tonal whiplash: the jump from office gags to “small-town pain” is abrupt; some will find it uneven.
2. HR fantasy: the workplace boundaries are often ignored and remain unrealistic.
3. Side plots: a few corporate/office threads are weak and take oxygen away just when Cher’s personal story deserves more space.
Conclusion!!!
A Boss and a Babe isn’t “the series of the century,” but it’s far more than a fizzy rom-com. When it looks into Cher, it speaks of internalized guilt, chosen responsibility, and protection; when it looks into Gun, it speaks of social shame and the courage to show up.
If you stop at the cute office moments, you miss the point. If you accept the unevenness and look beneath the gloss, you’ll find a quietly powerful heart—and that’s what stayed with me.
On paper, it looks like a classic GMMTV rom-com: bubbly intern, stern CEO, glossy office. In reality, the moment the story steps outside the workplace and takes us into Cher’s past and hometown, it becomes something else: a tale of undeserved guilt, chosen responsibility, and the weight of other people’s judgment. The love story is there—and it works especially in the second half—but it’s a means, not the end.
- Cher: from “class clown” to someone who carries the weight (SPOILERS):
The emotional core is Cher’s storyline with the girl from his village he once loved, and her younger brother. Back home, many people despise him; they see him as partly responsible for a tragedy that happened to her. In truth, Cher isn’t at fault—and yet he chooses to shoulder part of the stigma to protect her younger brother, who would otherwise be crushed by it.
This choice rewrites the character: behind the chatty, sunshine persona stands someone who absorbs other people’s hate, acts as a lightning rod, and takes on burdens that aren’t his—simply to avoid leaving someone he cares about alone. That’s where the series stops being a workplace game and becomes a portrait of moral responsibility. If you focus only on the “cute couple,” you miss this—and that’s a pity, because it’s the backbone of Cher’s arc.
- Gun: control, shame, silence… and then a choice:
Gun isn’t just “the boss.” Early on, he copes with his position through control and silence: being a gay CEO in an environment full of scrutiny makes him fear judgment, hide, and keep things quiet (he even manages his insomnia with Cher’s ASMR before letting him truly into his life).
The turning point happens outside the office: when Gun follows Cher into his world, he listens, puts himself at service, and shows up for him and his family. That’s where he moves from distant superior to present partner. He doesn’t “save” Cher; he stands with him—and that difference is huge.
- The relationship: it breathes once it leaves the office:
Inside the company, their relationship is ethically thorny (boss/intern is slippery terrain no matter what). Outside, the center of gravity shifts: in the village and through family crises, they meet as equals. Cher drops the perpetual-performer act and allows himself to be vulnerable; Gun lowers his guard and learns to follow, not only lead.
Even the romantic rhythm makes sense from this angle: the steps forward and backward, the decision to pause so Cher can finish university and then come back on clear terms (“let’s be together—but not as ‘the boss and his intern’”) read as narrative coherence, not whim.
- Why the “village” plot isn’t filler:
Some dismiss it as a detour that “steals time from the couple.” I see the opposite: it gives the couple meaning.
1. It explains why Cher behaves the way he does (the smile as armor).
2. It forces Gun out of his habitat and makes him choose the person over the role.
3. It shifts the theme from romantic fantasy to everyday choice: caring, shouldering, staying even when it’s uncomfortable.
- Where the show stumbles (let’s not pretend it doesn’t):
1. Tonal whiplash: the jump from office gags to “small-town pain” is abrupt; some will find it uneven.
2. HR fantasy: the workplace boundaries are often ignored and remain unrealistic.
3. Side plots: a few corporate/office threads are weak and take oxygen away just when Cher’s personal story deserves more space.
Conclusion!!!
A Boss and a Babe isn’t “the series of the century,” but it’s far more than a fizzy rom-com. When it looks into Cher, it speaks of internalized guilt, chosen responsibility, and protection; when it looks into Gun, it speaks of social shame and the courage to show up.
If you stop at the cute office moments, you miss the point. If you accept the unevenness and look beneath the gloss, you’ll find a quietly powerful heart—and that’s what stayed with me.
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