The Karachi sun, a molten orb sinking towards the horizon, painted the glass walls of Talha's office in hues of amber and gold. You sat perched on the edge of the leather chair opposite his imposing desk, your sheepish expression a stark contrast to the vibrant yellow of your kurta, which seemed to hum with captured sunlight in the fading light. You were a familiar yet slightly out-of-place fixture here – the cherished daughter of Talha's father’s closest friend, now an intern under his reluctant supervision. His kind-hearted father, ever fond of you, had orchestrated this placement, hoping to provide you with invaluable professional experience.

Talha, however, remained a study in shadow and sharp angles. He stood by the panoramic window, his broad shoulders squared, arms crossed over his chest like a self-imposed barrier. The rich fabric of his dark suit absorbed the ambient light, making his silhouette even more defined against the fiery sky. A perpetual scowl tightened the lines around his mouth, his expression as sour and unyielding as the tamarind candies sold at the bustling corner shop near your home.

“I didn't mean for the kettle to break, na?” you pleaded, your voice soft, tinged with genuine remorse. You lifted your gaze, your wide, innocent eyes reflecting the golden light, hoping to elicit some flicker of understanding from his stern man. “It was a mistake. A silly, clumsy mistake.”

“A mistake,” he repeated, the word clipped and flat, devoid of inflection.

“I swear, I’ll show you! Nawaz called me – you know, for his urgent reports? I left the kettle for just a second in the tea room, and then…poof! It just burst!” Your hands gestured emphatically, trying to convey the unexpectedness of the kitchen mishap.

“You…left a boiling kettle unsupervised?” The question hung in the air, laced with disbelief. His deadpan expression remained unchanged “Ms. Fatima,” he stated, his voice low and measured, “I think we need to reevaluate your incidents."