Monday morning smelled like rain and cheap coffee.
The kind of morning that carried both dread and hope in the same breath.
I woke before my alarm, too nervous to stay still. The sky outside my window was still pale, half-dawn, half-night, and I could hear the city yawning awake below me — buses humming, someone's radio playing softly through thin walls.
I dressed in silence, repeating my new mantra: Act like you belong.
By 8:15, I was standing in front of Blake's Media again, clutching my tote bag and trying to look like someone who didn't panic-read orientation emails at three in the morning.
The lobby was busier today. People hurried past, phone calls echoing, the smell of espresso and ink filling the air. The receptionist gave me a polite nod — she remembered me, which somehow made me feel both comforted and exposed.
"Interns, tenth floor," she said before I could even ask.
I smiled awkwardly. "Thank you."
The elevator ride felt longer than it should have. I watched the glowing numbers climb — six, seven, eight — my reflection trembling in the mirror walls.
When the doors opened, Ms. Claire was waiting, tablet in hand, her heels clicking with authority.
"Good morning, everyone," she said, scanning the small group of interns that had gathered. "Today, you'll be assigned to departments based on your skillset and the needs of our teams. Follow your assigned mentors closely. This is your opportunity to prove yourself."
She began reading names off her list.
"Davis, Marketing."
"June, Editorial."
"Marla, Digital Design."
And then, "Amara,Creative Development."
My head snapped up.
Creative Development.
That was the department Adrian had introduced himself from.
I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening.
Ms. Claire looked up from her tablet. "You'll be under the supervision of one of our Creative Directors. He'll brief you himself."
The words he'll brief you sent a shiver down my spine.
I followed the group down the hall to a set of glass doors etched with the company's logo. Beyond them was an office space that looked nothing like the dim university libraries I was used to.
Bookshelves lined the walls — not decorative, but alive, full of manuscripts and binders. Large windows overlooked the skyline. A faint hum of conversation filled the room, the sound of keyboards and creativity.
Ms. Claire gestured to a desk near the corner. "You'll work here. Mr. Blake should be in shortly."
I froze.
Mr. Blake.
Before I could form a thought, the door behind us opened.
He walked in — tall, composed, perfectly tailored suit, same blue eyes that felt too familiar.
For a heartbeat, everything in me stopped.
He looked exactly like the Adrian I'd met in the subway — the one who'd bought my notebooks and handed me $1910 like it was nothing. The same hair, the same quiet confidence.
But something was off.
He moved differently — straighter, sharper. His voice, when he spoke, was lower, smoother, more distant.
"Good morning," he said, setting a folder on the table. "I'm Mr. Blake. I'll be overseeing the Creative Development interns."
Not Adrian. Not a trace of recognition in his expression. Just polite professionalism.
For a few seconds, I stared, waiting — hoping for the smallest flicker of recognition. But there was none.
He glanced around the room, his gaze skimming over everyone — and when his eyes met mine, my breath caught.
Nothing.
No spark of familiarity. No sign that he remembered the freezing subway or my taped-together earpiece or the stack of stories he'd bought.
He gave me the same courteous nod he gave everyone else.
And somehow, that stung more than I expected.
"Today," he continued, "you'll be reviewing a few sample manuscripts from our new writers. I want your honest feedback. Be detailed. Authenticity matters more than perfection here."
His tone was calm but commanding — the kind that made you want to do everything right.
He handed out folders, one to each intern. When he reached my desk, our hands brushed slightly. My pulse jumped.
For a second, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes — confusion, maybe — but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Welcome to the team," he said simply, before moving on.
I stared down at the folder, trying to steady my breathing.
He wasn't the same. Or maybe he was, and he just didn't want to admit it.
Maybe he'd forgotten me. Maybe I wasn't worth remembering.
Either way, the space between us felt heavier than words.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur. I buried myself in reading — a dozen pages of fiction that felt both inspiring and exhausting. Every time I tried to focus, I caught myself glancing toward his office.
Once, I saw him through the glass wall, standing by his desk, phone pressed to his ear, brow furrowed in thought. He looked like someone born to be here — someone who'd never known the kind of hunger or fear that shaped me.
And yet, for reasons I couldn't explain, I felt drawn to him.
By noon, Ms. Claire dismissed us for lunch. I hesitated, not wanting to leave my folder unattended, when his voice stopped me.
"Ms. Jazmyne, a word?"
My stomach dropped.
I turned, clutching the folder like a shield. "Yes, sir?"
He gestured toward his office. "Just a minute."
Inside, the air felt colder. His desk was spotless — neat stacks of papers, a single fountain pen, and a silver nameplate that read Mr. Blake.
He motioned for me to sit. I obeyed, trying not to fidget.
He studied me for a moment — not unkindly, but with a level of curiosity that made my skin prickle.
"You're new to this, aren't you?" he asked finally.
I nodded. "Yes, sir. It's my first internship."
He leaned back slightly, hands clasped. "Your writing samples were… different. Raw. Almost unfinished, but in a good way. They felt real."
My heart stuttered. Unfinished.
He didn't know it, but that word hit like a ghost.
"Thank you," I managed, my voice barely steady. "I—I like writing that way. It feels more honest."
He smiled faintly — small, almost invisible. "Honesty is rare here. Hold onto it."
For a moment, our eyes met, and something shifted — something unspoken, strange, familiar.
But then his phone buzzed, breaking the moment like a snapped thread.
He glanced at it, frowned slightly, and stood. "Apologies. Meeting at one. You can go for lunch now."
I nodded, rising quickly. "Of course. Thank you for the feedback."
As I turned to leave, I heard him say quietly, almost to himself,
"You just remind me of someone I knew once."
I froze mid-step, but when I looked back, his attention was already on his phone, his face unreadable.
Outside his office, the noise of the workspace swallowed the silence in my head.
I clutched my folder and walked out, my thoughts tangled in a knot I couldn't undo.
I didn't know that the real story was only just starting to unfold.
The elevator hummed softly, the metallic doors reflecting my nervous expression back at me.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. The doors slid open — and he stepped in.
Adrian Blake.
It was ridiculous how easily the air shifted the moment he entered. He didn't just walk; he commanded space. Black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms, a sleek watch glinting beneath the fluorescent lights.
I straightened instinctively, my throat suddenly dry.
He didn't look at me right away. His attention stayed on the phone in his hand, his reflection faint against the mirrored wall. But even without eye contact, his presence filled the small space like gravity itself had bent around him.
I swallowed, gathering every ounce of courage I had left. "Um… good morning."
He didn't glance up. "Morning."
Just that. One word — clipped, controlled, perfectly polished.
The kind of word that could mean everything or nothing at all.
I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing a smile that wasn't returned. "I'm Amara. The new intern. Writing division."
He finally looked up then. Just a flick of those icy blue eyes, sharp and assessing. For a heartbeat, I thought I saw something — curiosity, recognition maybe — but it disappeared just as quickly.
His lips curved slightly, though not into a smile. "Welcome."
Another word. One that somehow sounded both polite and dismissive.
The elevator continued to climb, and in that narrow metal box, silence grew louder with every passing floor. I could smell his cologne — subtle but expensive — something with cedar and confidence. The kind of scent that lingered after a man left a room, reminding you he'd been there.
I clutched my folder tighter, trying to think of something else to say, but before I could, the elevator chimed. The doors opened.
He stepped out first, unhurried, assured — like the world waited for his next move.
I followed, trying not to trip over my nerves.
"See you around," I muttered, mostly to myself.
He didn't turn, didn't answer. He just raised a hand in a half-wave without looking back and disappeared into the maze of glass offices.
The morning passed in a blur of introductions and instructions. Tessa — cheerful, fast-talking, slightly chaotic — showed me where to find the printer, the shared drive, and "the best vending machine that doesn't hate interns."
By the time she left me to work, I had a desk, a stack of manuscripts, and exactly one working pen.
But my mind wasn't on the papers. It was on him.
Every time I caught a glimpse of that glass office at the far end of the corridor — "Adrian Blake, Creative Director" etched in silver — my stomach flipped.
He hadn't recognized me.
At least, I didn't think he had.
Still, there was still something in his eyes — not familiarity, exactly, but… awareness. The kind that made you feel seen even when he wasn't looking at you.
By lunchtime, my head was swimming with too many thoughts and not enough courage. I decided to grab a coffee from the break area downstairs, just to clear my mind.
The elevator opened again. Empty.
Until a hand stopped the door from closing.
Him.
"Mind if I—" he began, stepping in before I could answer.
"Of course," I said quickly, heart stumbling again.
We stood side by side, silence stretching like static. The hum of the elevator filled the space between us.
I could feel his presence — the subtle tension of someone entirely at ease in his own skin. I wasn't sure whether to say something or just pretend I didn't exist.
"So," I blurted before I could stop myself, "what's it like running a place like this?"
He turned his head, one brow raised slightly. "Demanding."
Just that. One word again. Flat, smooth, confident.
Then he looked away.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. "Right. Of course. I mean — it looks demanding. All the glass and suits and… you know, deadlines."
His lips curved slightly, amusement flickering across his face like sunlight through blinds. "You'll get used to it."
Before I could reply, the elevator chimed. The doors opened to the cafeteria floor.
He stepped out, coffee-colored eyes meeting mine for the briefest second. "Good luck, intern."
And then he was gone — walking with that calm, self-assured stride, leaving the scent of cedar and distance behind him.
I ate alone that afternoon, too aware of the memory of his voice.
There was something about him that tugged at my thoughts — not in a romantic way, not yet, but in a way that demanded answers.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted — not from work, but from wondering.
As I packed my bag, Tessa waved from across the room. "See you tomorrow, subway daydreamer!" she teased.
I blinked. "What?"
She laughed. "You spaced out earlier. Said something about a subway. Thought you were pitching a story."
I smiled weakly. "Right. Story."
But it wasn't a story.
Not yet.
When I passed by Adrian's office on my way out, the lights were still on. He was at his desk, sleeves rolled higher, expression unreadable as he flipped through a manuscript.
For a second, he looked up — right at me through the glass.
Our eyes met.
And in that fragile instant, the world narrowed to just that quiet hum of recognition neither of us could name.
Then he nodded once, cool and distant, before returning to his work.
I walked away quickly, heart pounding.