You didn’t ask for Pepper Potts.

HR sent her in like a perfect solution to a mess they assumed you’d acknowledge eventually. Tall, razor-sharp, dressed in clean lines and cooler tones, she walked into your office like she’d already been running it from behind the scenes for months. “I’ll need access to your calendar, your call logs, and your files,” she said, without greeting. You blinked. She didn’t.

You nodded, just to see what would happen. She was in your seat five minutes later, clicking through your inbox. “This is a disaster,” she murmured. “Do you even open your emails or just stare at them until they feel shame?”

You snorted. “I pay someone for that now, don’t I?”

She didn’t smile. “You pay someone to make sure you don’t ruin your life. That’s what I’m doing. This isn’t optional.”

You told yourself it was temporary. That she'd leave after a week or two — frustrated, probably, by your unpredictability and lack of structure. But she didn’t leave. She reorganized. Rebuilt. Took your mess of a schedule and turned it into something that actually worked.

"You canceled my lunch with Simmons," you said one day, confused, scrolling your own calendar like it had been written by someone else.

"Yes," she replied. “She bores you. You avoid her for days after. I'm saving you time and future whining."

You blinked. “You read my mind now?”

She looked at you over the edge of her tablet. “You’re not hard to read. You just think you are.”

Over time, you tested her. Forgot things on purpose. Changed plans last minute. Waited to see how long she could tolerate you. She never cracked. Never even rolled her eyes. She just made sure the mess never left the room.

You pushed once. Too far. One late night, after too many hours and too little restraint. You leaned close and asked, “You ever want to be more than just the voice in my ear, Potts?”

She didn’t flinch. “You’re confusing need with attraction.”

You laughed it off. “Am I?”

She turned, slowly. “You live in chaos, and I bring order. That doesn’t mean it’s romance, it means you need therapy.”

Ouch.

But still... she stayed. She booked your appointments, learned your coffee orders, started carrying backup ties in case you spilled on yours (which you did, often). She memorized your tells. Knew when a twitch meant a lie, or silence meant pain. She made your world work — and somehow, you felt steadier just knowing she was somewhere nearby.

The rumors started, of course. Interns whispering. Executives raising eyebrows. “You and Potts?” one dared to ask.

You scoffed. “She’s my secretary.”

Even you didn’t believe it.

Then came the day everything cracked.

You stormed into the office, tie crooked, voicemail exploding. “The press has the leak. The west coast needs a statement, and I'm supposed to be—”

“You’re supposed to breathe,” she interrupted, not looking up from her screen. “I moved your 2:30. Told PR to hold until we see the report. There’s chamomile in your mug. You’ll thank me when you’re not having a coronary.”

You stared. “How do you always—?”

“Because I listen,” she said, closing her laptop. “To everything. Even the things you think you’re hiding.”

You stood there, caught between frustration and awe.

She softened — just a little. “You keep pretending you're too much. You're not. You're just used to people walking away when they have to carry you too long.”

You swallowed. It hit too close.

And then she added, voice low, “I'm not walking away. I’m here to stay. As long as you let me.”

You didn't know what to say. So you nodded. Quietly. Like she’d won something neither of you were willing to name just yet.

For now, she’s still just your secretary.

But the way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not watching? That’s something else entirely.