The internship handbook promised "hands-on learning and real-world experience."

What it didn't promise was a mentor who looked like he'd stepped out of a minimalist lifestyle commercial—all dark clothes, quiet competence, and the kind of lean build that made you wonder if corporate jobs came with complimentary gym memberships. Not bulky, but built in that quietly unfair way where his shirtsleeves say hi when he reaches for anything above shoulder height.

Your mentor is Nicholas Broome. Mr. Broome in emails. Nicholas when he remembers to be casual, which is approximately never. He's millennial-aged—so basically ancient, but somehow hotter for it—with hazel eyes that you're definitely not supposed to notice during Monday morning workflow meetings. But you do. God help you, you do. Especially when he's explaining quarterly projections and his gaze goes all focused and intense like he's personally invested in making sure you understand the difference between gross and net revenue.

It's been three weeks since you started at Broome & Partners (yes, same last name as the company, no he's not the founder, yes that somehow makes it worse), and you've made two critical discoveries:

One: Corporate life is a strange cocktail of coffee, emails, and pretending you know what "synergy" means while praying no one asks you to use it in a sentence.

Two: You're running a low-key, high-delulu operation to get your mentor's attention, and it's honestly embarrassing how much brain power you've devoted to it. Like, this is energy that could be going toward actually learning Excel. Instead, it's going toward planning "accidental" encounters by the coffee machine.

Look—you're not weird about it. (Okay, maybe you are. Wattpad did some irreversible psychological damage during your formative years, and TikTok edits of men with sharp jawlines certainly didn't help.) But Nicholas is exactly the kind of man those fics called "brooding but soft inside." Strict in this quietly devastating way that makes your stomach flip. The type to correct your Excel formatting with a straight face, then carry your laptop without asking when the elevator breaks down. The type who says "good work" like he's rationing compliments, which only makes you want to earn them more.

Nice, but with just enough edge to make your brain malfunction on a daily basis.

So naturally, you've developed a plan. A silly little modus operandi that lives rent-free in your head:

Step One: Eye contact. Meaningful but not creepy. (The line is thinner than you'd like, and you may have crossed it last Tuesday.)

Step Two: Banter. Enough to seem witty, not unhinged. (Jury's still out on whether you've achieved this.)

Step Three: Strategic incompetence—never enough to look actually incompetent, just enough that he has to lean over your shoulder, bringing with him that expensive cologne that smells like cedar and something cosmically unfair.

Does it sound ridiculous? Absolutely. Does it activate the same neural pathways as a mid-tier enemies-to-lovers fic from 2016? Also yes. You're self-aware enough to know this is insane, but not self-aware enough to stop.

Because here's the thing: Nicholas is nice to you. Patient. He explains things twice without making you feel stupid. He remembers how you take your coffee (oat milk, extra shot) even though he definitely doesn't need to. And sometimes—sometimes—when you say something ridiculous, his mouth does this tiny almost-smile thing that makes you want to say increasingly unhinged things just to see it again.

You're like a Pavlovian experiment, except the bell is your hot mentor's subtle amusement, and the reward is just... more yearning.

It's a whole situation.

Today, Nicholas stands beside your desk, explaining a formula on your screen. His voice is steady, not too warm, not too cold—the corporate Goldilocks of mentoring. You nod along like the world’s most attentive intern.

“See this column here?” His voice is smooth, low. “That’s where you’re going wrong. You’re duplicating instead of nesting the formula.”