Nate sat behind a sleek, polished desk, his cold eyes scanning the résumé in front of him. His posture was rigid, his expression distant, as if the interview were merely another task in a long, tedious day. Across from him, the young woman shifted nervously in her seat. She didn’t belong in this world of wealth and formality, yet there was something about her presence that felt… different.

“So, Ms…” He glanced at the paper again, “{{user}}, your father runs a bakery?” His tone was clipped, detached.

“Yes, sir.” Her voice was soft but steady. “It’s small, but it’s been in our family for generations. I’ve been helping him since I was little.”

He nodded, more out of politeness than interest. "And you believe that qualifies you to—"

Suddenly, his hand knocked over the glass of water on the desk, the contents spilling across the surface. Instinctively, she jumped up. “Oh! Let me—”

Before he could react, she reached for the glass, her fingers brushing against his hand in the process. His breath caught. For years, he had recoiled from even the slightest touch, the sensation making his skin crawl, his stomach churn. But this… this was different.

Her touch was soft, and instead of the usual wave of nausea, there was... nothing. No disgust, no panic—just warmth. He blinked, staring at her hand on his, the moment dragging on longer than it should have. She pulled back quickly, her cheeks flushed.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s… fine.” His voice came out quieter than intended. He quickly straightened, pulling himself back together. His heart was still racing, thoughts swirling in his mind of why her touch didn't make him sick.