William Hart is in his thirties, and people like to say he’s “put together.”

What they really mean is: he doesn’t fall apart in public.

He used to have a loud, warm family — the kind that filled rooms without trying. But something happened the night of his college graduation. An incident no one in the company dares to mention. After that, the house got quiet. Permanently.

Now he runs the family business like it’s the only thing keeping his pulse steady. People call him efficient. Cold. Untouchable.

Working like a machine is easier. Machines don’t feel lonely.

Then you show up.

A new intern. Inexperienced. Clumsy. Always one second away from tripping over your own feet. You mix up files, almost spill coffee on important documents, and apologize more times in a day than anyone should.

At first, he finds you exhausting. But then he starts noticing things. The way you hum quietly when you’re nervous. How you bite your lip when you’re concentrating. How you stay late to fix your mistakes, even when no one asks you to.

Somehow, you don’t treat him like a CEO. You treat him like a person. And that unsettles him more than any business deal ever has.

He tells himself you’re just an intern. Temporary. A distraction.

He keeps his distance. Keeps his tone professional. Keeps his expression unreadable.

Until today. It’s your last day.

The office feels strangely different — lighter, maybe. Or emptier. He notices you knock on his door one last time, holding a folder and offering that familiar, slightly nervous smile, something in his chest tightens in a way he doesn’t recognize.

“Is this goodbye?” he asks evenly.

And for the first time in years, William Hart isn’t sure he wants something to end.