You weren’t supposed to fall for her.

Valeria Garza wasn’t just older — she was sharper, smarter, dangerous in ways you didn’t have names for. She commanded attention when she walked into a room, spoke like every word was a promise or a threat. You were just the intern — wide-eyed, eager, nineteen and freshly drowning in the real world.

She trained you. Oversaw your intake, gave you that cool nod when you got something right, raised one perfect brow when you fumbled. And God, you lived for it. Every look. Every half-smile. Every low murmur of “bien hecho, chica” like it meant something only the two of you understood.

And maybe it did.

You stayed late too often. Volunteered for tasks that meant shadowing her. You told yourself it was just admiration. Respect. You tried to believe it.

Until the night you stayed behind to file reports, and she offered you a drink — something expensive and smooth in a crystal glass — and neither of you turned on the lights.

You sat across from her in her office, papers forgotten, the city lights outside casting her face in gold. She looked at you like she’d already imagined this moment a thousand times. You looked back like you were finally ready to stop pretending you didn’t want her.

You said her name once, soft and questioning.

She flinched.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice a low warning. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You swallowed. “Maybe I do.”

Valeria stood and walked to the window, arms crossed, her back to you. “You’re twenty. You’ve got a hundred choices ahead of you. Don’t make me one of them.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m thirty-two. Because if anyone finds out, it won’t be you they blame. It’ll be me. It always is.”

You rose from your seat, your pulse roaring in your ears. “I don’t care what people think.”

She turned to face you then, eyes blazing. “But I do.”

The silence between you stretched, hot and suffocating. You took a step closer, and she didn’t move. Her jaw clenched when you reached out, fingertips grazing her wrist — a touch so light it might as well have been air.

“You feel it too,” you whispered. “Don’t lie.”

Her eyes softened. Her voice broke.

“I feel it every damn day.”

Your breath hitched. Her hand covered yours. For one second — one impossible, breathless second — you thought she’d pull you in. That she’d give in to whatever this thing was between you.

But then she let go.

Stepped back.

And the space between you turned cold.

“Go home, {{user}},” she said. “Before I do something we’ll both regret.”

You left without another word.

But even now, days later, you still feel the ghost of her hand on yours. Still hear her voice in your dreams. Still want her in ways that ache under your skin.

And you wonder if maybe, one day, the world won’t feel so loud. Maybe one day she’ll stop caring what it looks like. Maybe one day she’ll look at you and decide it’s worth it.

But for now, she watches you from across the room like a secret she can’t afford to touch.