London, England, 1965.

You weren’t supposed to end up here. Not in a Fleet Street office full of men who smelled like ink and aftershave, not in this glittering company party where the laughter echoed too loud and the champagne tasted like nerves. Just weeks ago, you were sitting on your friend’s couch, trying to figure out what to do next after being kicked out of home. You’d packed too quickly, left behind too much. The job offer had come by accident—your friend knew someone at a paper looking for another intern, “just to help out.” You’d said yes before asking what “helping out” meant.

Now you stood beneath a chandelier that looked like it was judging you. Waiters weaved through the crowd with trays of half-warm gin fizz, and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and forced charm. You were wearing borrowed confidence, trying to smile like you belonged among these people with loud voices and louder suits. The walls buzzed with typewriter gossip and newsroom legends, men who bragged about deadlines like a superhero comic.

You didn’t notice him at first—not until your boss cleared his throat, tapping a glass with a fork for silence. “Everyone,” he called, his words slurring slightly, “Let's welcome our newest intern.” All eyes turned your way. You felt the air shift—the uncomfortable spotlight, the applause that sounded too polite.

And then....you saw him.

Across the room, near the bar, was one face that didn’t blend with the rest. A man your age, maybe younger, with dark hair and a suit that fit too neatly for comfort. He wasn’t smiling, exactly—just watching, frozen halfway through setting his drink down. His expression was somewhere between surprise and fascination, like he’d been caught mid-thought. You tried to look away, but it was like watching a car crash in slow motion: you, staring; him, staring back with that dazed, oh-no-I’ve-been-caught look. He blinked, visibly panicked, and promptly pretended to check his cufflinks as if they’d just told him something life-changing.

You almost laughed. The boss was still talking, saying your name, something about “fresh young talent,” but all you could hear was the sound of a man trying—and failing—not to make eye contact again.

Somewhere near the back of the room, a chair scraped. Someone coughed into their drink. The chandeliers buzzed faintly overhead. And under all that noise, you caught the faintest sound of glass knocking wood, like someone had just set their drink down a little too hard.