Monday morning arrived too bright for someone who had slept less than five hours.  

Samantha stood at her mirror, debating whether confidence could be drawn on with eyeliner. It couldn’t—but she tried anyway. Her reflection gave her the kind of supportive silence only glass could manage.

By the time she reached the office, the lobby smelled like disinfectant and ambition. Reed Tech’s logo gleamed above the reception desk, too polished for a Monday. She adjusted her bag strap, her nerves already arguing about whether quitting her old job had been a bold move or a financial disaster.

The elevator ride to the twenty-sixth floor felt longer than it was. She rehearsed how to sound capable, friendly, and not like someone who had googled “how to be professional” over breakfast.

The doors opened to an expanse of glass and quiet bustle. The coffee machine hissed like it was judging her existence. She pressed a button—it sputtered, hissed again, then produced one lukewarm drop before giving up entirely.

“You had one job,” she muttered.

“First day?” Miles’s voice came from behind her. He was leaning on the counter, suit slightly rumpled, holding a perfectly brewed cup from the working machine. “You picked the cursed one. Classic rookie mistake.”

She sighed. “Didn’t realize appliances held grudges.”

“They do here. That one’s been emotionally unavailable since December.”

Samantha smirked. “Good to know. I’ll manage my expectations.”

Miles led her toward the elevators. “Nathan’s in early. He’s one of those people who treats sunrise like an appointment.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I like my bosses punctual and slightly intimidating.”

“Then you’ll love this one.”

The elevator chimed open. Miles gave a mock salute. “Good luck surviving orientation. I’ll be around if you need translation—or therapy.”

She grinned, mostly out of self-defense. “Noted.”

Nathan’s office sat at the far end of the glass corridor, door half open, city light spilling across the floor. He was there already, sleeves rolled up, voice low as he spoke into a headset. His tone was calm, precise, efficient—like a surgeon operating on chaos.

She lingered a second too long before knocking.

He looked up. “Morning.”

“Morning. First day.”

“I’m aware,” he said, almost amused. “Coffee?”

“Only if it’s not from the machine that hates me.”

“I’ll have Claire order something better. Sit—let’s get started.”

He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. Samantha sat, straightened her posture, and pretended her heart wasn’t pounding at corporate volume. He began outlining the week’s projects, each sentence perfectly structured. She scribbled notes, trying to keep up.

“Your role is coordination,” he explained. “We’re in transition—new clients, new teams, same deadlines.”

She nodded. “Sounds like a fun kind of panic.”

He glanced at her, faint smile tugging at the edge of control. “You’ll fit in fine.”

By ten, she’d met half the department and accidentally volunteered for a meeting she didn’t understand. The walls were covered in color-coded charts and motivational quotes about synergy. Every desk had at least one succulent fighting for its life.

At lunch, she found herself in the cafeteria with Miles and Claire. The windows framed Luminara’s skyline—sunlight bouncing off glass towers like a disco for the overworked.

Miles slid her a sandwich. “So? Impressions?”

“Everyone’s competent and tired,” she said. “It’s comforting.”

Claire laughed. “You’ll blend right in.”

They traded stories about previous jobs, awkward clients, and the strange joy of working somewhere that offered health insurance *and* kombucha. When Samantha joked about writing an anonymous office survival guide, Miles said he’d read it just to see who got roasted first.

At two, she returned to her desk to find an email from Nathan: *Meeting at three. Conference Room 9A. Bring notes.*  

No greeting. No sign-off. Pure efficiency.

The meeting itself was a blur of numbers and polite tension. Nathan stood at the head of the table, effortlessly commanding attention without ever raising his voice. Samantha watched him field questions with surgical calm. When he looked her way, she straightened—instinct, not choice.

Afterward, he stopped beside her. “Good start,” he said.

She blinked. “Thanks. I’m still figuring out where the stapler lives.”

He almost smiled. “It moves daily.”

When he walked away, she caught herself watching him a moment longer than necessary. It wasn’t attraction—at least, that’s what she told herself—it was curiosity. He moved like someone who’d built a life out of control, yet seemed perpetually at war with it.

By five, her brain had switched languages entirely—corporate jargon mixed with caffeine. She started packing up when Nathan appeared again.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

“I have several. None of them productive.”

“Good. We have a client issue.”

She sighed, following him toward the conference room. “Define issue.”

He gave her a look. “You’ll see.”

Two hours later, the office was nearly empty. The city beyond the glass shimmered with streaks of gold fading into blue. Samantha sat hunched over her laptop, typing notes as Nathan paced, phone in hand, giving calm, precise directions that somehow made chaos behave.

When he hung up, she said, “Do you ever yell?”

“No.”

“Ever want to?”

“Frequently.”

That earned her a real smile—brief, but genuine. She liked it more than she should’ve.

They worked side by side until the clock crept past seven. He dictated, she typed; they adjusted, refined, and reworded until the mess made sense. It was almost peaceful.

At some point, Miles appeared with takeout. “You two still alive?”

“Barely,” Samantha said. “What’s this?”

“Thai. Food of champions.” He winked at Nathan. “You want any?”

“No, thank you.”

“Figures,” Miles muttered. “Man runs on spreadsheets.”

Samantha snorted, covering it with a cough. Nathan ignored the comment, but his eyes flickered—half amusement, half resignation.

By nine, the last report was finished. Samantha leaned back, stretching her neck. “Is this normal?”

“For a Monday? Almost,” he said, collecting the papers. “You did well.”

She blinked at the compliment. “Thanks. I didn’t break anything important.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” she echoed, smiling.

Outside, the office lights dimmed automatically, casting soft shadows across the room. Nathan stood by the window, looking at the city below—thousands of lights flickering like a heartbeat. Samantha watched his reflection in the glass, the faint outline of someone who looked composed but slightly distant.

He caught her gaze in the reflection. “You should go home.”

“You too,” she said.

“I will.”

She didn’t believe him, but didn’t say so. She packed her things and paused at the doorway. “Good night, Nathan.”

“Good night, Samantha.”

The elevator doors closed between them with a metallic sigh.

She walked out into the cool air of Luminara City, her breath visible in the night light.  

Traffic hummed softly. Somewhere, a street performer’s guitar floated through the distance.  

Samantha stopped for a moment, looking up at the skyscraper she’d just left—thirty-two floors of ambition and exhaustion. One window still glowed near the top.

She smiled to herself. “Of course he’s still there.”

Her stomach growled, interrupting the sentiment. She laughed quietly and turned toward the small diner at the corner.  

A cup of coffee, maybe another croissant. Something simple, hers alone.

When she sat by the window, the reflection of the city mixed with her own. She opened her phone and saw Gideon’s message: *How’s day one? Still breathing?*  

She typed back: *Barely. But the view’s not bad.*

She didn’t specify which one.