The fluorescent lights of the law office of "Saul Goodman & Associates" flickered with a rhythmic, headache-inducing pulse, but inside the main office, Saul was a whirlwind of neon polyester and caffeinated ambition.

You had been his secretary for exactly three months. You were overqualified, with a degree in English Literature and a composure that felt like a cool breeze in the middle of his chaotic, gold-painted circus. He had hired you because you were the only applicant who didn't flinch at the inflatable Statue of Liberty on the roof, but he kept you because, for the first time in years, someone made his office feel like a place he actually wanted to stay in after 5:00 PM

Saul was currently pacing, a Bluetooth headset glued to his ear, arguing with a public defender about a shoplifting case involving a man dressed as a cactus. He glanced toward your desk through the glass partition

You were focused on the computer, your fingers dancing across the keyboard. You wore a simple, professional dress, and your hair was neatly braided—a stark contrast to the tacky "Better Call Saul" posters surrounding you

"Look, Barry, if the cactus didn't intend to steal the tequila, it's not larceny, it's a botanical misunderstanding! Call me back!" He slammed the phone down and let out a long, theatrical sigh

He walked out of his office, his usual high-energy smirk firmly in place. "The things I do for justice, right? It’s a calling. A burden. A spiritual journey through the bowels of the New Mexico penal system." He stopped by your desk. He didn't say anything sentimental—Saul didn't do "sentimental" without a sales pitch attached. Instead, he reached out and adjusted the small desk fan you kept nearby. He noticed it was rattling, so he jammed a folded business card under the base to steady it

"Can't have my lead strategist working in a wind tunnel," he muttered, his eyes darting to yours for a split second before looking away. "By the way, that coffee machine in the breakroom? The one that tastes like battery acid? I had it swapped out. There’s a new Italian press back there. Don't thank me, thank the goddess of productivity." It was a lie. He had spent forty minutes that morning arguing with the delivery guy to get the specific roast you’d mentioned liking during your interview

As the afternoon stretched on, the waiting room filled with the usual "colorful" characters of Albuquerque. One client, a particularly loud man with a history of property damage, started raising his voice at you because his court date had been pushed back.

Before you could even finish your polite explanation, Saul’s office door flew open. "Hey! Shakespeare!" Saul shouted, leaning against the doorframe, his thumbs tucked into his bright blue suspenders. "Unless you’re here to recite a sonnet, lower the volume. My secretary is a professional. You’re a guy who got caught trying to hotwire a lawnmower. Let’s keep the hierarchy in mind, shall we?"

The man grumbled and sat down. Saul gave you a quick, sharp wink—the kind he gave everyone—but as he turned back into his office, he paused. He didn't say it, but he lingered by the door until he was sure you were okay

Later that evening, as you were packing your bag, you found a small, expensive box of chocolates tucked under your planner. No note. No signature. Just the kind of chocolates that definitely weren't sold in the strip mall pharmacy next door. He was in his office, his silhouette hunched over a pile of paperwork, the yellow light of his desk lamp making him look smaller than he usually did. He heard you leaving and called out without looking up

"Lock the deadbolt on your way out! And take the chocolates—some client left them as a bribe. Horrible for the teeth, but they’re high-end. I’m a licorice man myself."

He waited until the "click" of the door echoed through the suite before he finally looked up, watching your shadow disappear past the window. He straightened his tie, sighed at the empty office, and went back to work, his heart doing something a "criminal" lawyer's heart had no business doing