Jane pov
The moment the car pulled up to the curb, my stomach twisted.
It didn't matter that Levi had been kind. It didn't matter that his voice had a way of steadying me, or that for a few quiet minutes, i felt like i wasn't drowning. None of that could change the building in front of me—the glass, the steel, the reminder.
i stepped out, murmured a thank-you i wasn't sure he even heard, and shut the door gently behind her.
Don't look back.
I didn't. Not because i didn't want to, but because I was afraid I would stay.
The building loomed, all clean lines and ambition. The place where i was supposed to be proving myself. Instead, all i could think about was the sound of Zayn's voice from yesterday—sharp, cold, echoing through the office like a warning bell.
my heels clicked against the pavement as i crossed the lobby. i kept my head down, shoulders tight, like i could fold myself smaller. Invisible.
Let them forget you exist.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped in and pressed the button, my reflection staring back at me in the mirrored walls. Hair neat. Blouse tucked. But my eyes gave me away.
God, i looked wrecked.
I hated that.
I hated that someone like Zayn—someone who probably didn't even remember my name—had gotten under my skin that fast. i hated that a stranger in a car had made me feel safer than my own workplace. That said something, didn't it?
The doors opened to my floor with a soft chime.
i took a breath.
Then another.
Then i stepped out—because that's what you did when you couldn't afford to fall apart. You straightened your spine, fixed your face, and walked into the lion's den like you belonged there.
Even if part of you wasn't sure you did.
I had double-checked everything.
Creamer on the side, two sugar cubes—not one, not three. The ceramic mug, not paper. The sleeve aligned so the logo faced forward. It had all been on the list: "Daily Routine for Mr. Zayn Anderson." Typed in a font so sharp it felt like judgment.
And still… I missed something.
The temperature.
Not hot. Not 85 degrees, exactly.
Just… warm.
I didn't realize it until I saw the twitch in his jaw.
Mr Anderson didn't speak right away. He looked down at the coffee i placed on his desk, then back at me like i just dropped a dead fish onto his polished hardwood.
I stood straighter, forcing myself not to fidget.
"Is there a problem?" I asked, trying to sound calm. Neutral. Professional.
Mr Anderson lifted the mug with two fingers like it offended him. Took a sip. Then slowly—too slowly—set it back down.
His eyes found mine, icy and unreadable. "Is this your idea of hot coffee?"
my stomach dropped.
"It was hot when I brought it up," i said quietly. "I—I followed the list—"
"The list," he interrupted, voice flat, "says eighty-five degrees. This isn't eighty-five degrees."
"It was when I poured it."
He stared at me.
my voice caught before i could stop it. "I didn't think—"
"Exactly."
The word cut cleaner than a slap.
i swallowed hard. People nearby were pretending not to listen, pretending to type, pretending to breathe quieter.
"I'll replace it," i said, already reaching for the mug.
He didn't stop me. Of course he didn't.
As i turned away, coffee trembling in my grip, i felt heat rise in my cheeks—not the burn of shame anymore, but something else. Something sharp. Tight.
I wasn't stupid. I wasn't careless.
But this man—this man who probably wouldn't flinch if the world caught fire—treated me like a walking mistake. Like my presence was an inconvenience to be tolerated at best.
i could feel tears threatening. i didn't let them fall.
Not here. Not for him.
As the elevator doors closed behind me, mug in hand, I whispered to no one, "It was just coffee."
But even I knew—it was never just coffee with people like Zayn Anderson
Zayn pov
The door clicked shut.
I didn't move.
I stared at the mug on my desk like it had personally offended me. Maybe it had.
"Eighty-five degrees," i muttered, lifting it again. Lukewarm. Tepid. Weak.
Like the effort behind it.
i set it down harder than necessary.
One job. One. Carry a mug. From the break room. Upstairs. Follow a list—a very generous list, i add—spelled out in excruciating detail. Temperature, mug type, placement, logo alignment. It was practically paint-by-numbers.
And she'd still managed to mess it up.
i leaned back on my chair, jaw tight, fingers steepled. The sound of distant typing filtered through the frosted glass of my office. People pretending they hadn't just witnessed my secretary shrink under my stare.
Good. Let them pretend. Let them remember who runs this floor.
Still, something buzzed beneath my irritation. A pressure at the base of my skull.
i hated repeats.
Mistakes were tolerable—once. A learning curve. But this? This was two days in a row. First the copy debacle. Now the coffee. She wasn't careless. She was… unreliable.
And yet—
my eyes drifted to the tissue in the trash, smeared with the ring of her mistake.
She'd looked up at me with that look again. The same one from yesterday. That wide-eyed blend of shame and steel, like she wasn't sure whether to apologize or slap me.
She hadn't cried, though.
I expected tears.
Instead, she'd taken the damn mug and walked out like she was holding broken glass—like she was holding herself together.
I scoffed.
Sentimental little secretary. Probably went to the bathroom to sob into paper towels. Probably wondering if this job was worth it.
It wasn't, for her.
She didn't belong here. Not in this company. Not on this floor. Not with him.
"Just coffee," i said aloud, mocking her words. my lips curled into a bitter smirk. "Right. And I'm just a receptionist."
I stood abruptly and moved to the window, arms crossed as i glared down at the city. People rushed below like ants. Efficient. Purposeful. Predictable.
Not like her.
That was the thing, wasn't it?
She wasn't predictable. She was… messy. Soft in the wrong places. Defiant in the wrong moments. And somehow, still not gone.
I exhaled through my nose.
Maybe she'd quit.
It would make sense.
It would be easier.
It would mean she didn't remind me—however faintly—of someone else.
Someone who had smiled the same way. Who'd cared, even when he'd told her not to.
my throat tightened for a second. Just a second.
Then i turned back to my desk,and pulled open my inbox.
Work. Structure. Discipline.
I buried the flicker of feeling so deep, not even i could name it.