They sat in silence until Vince came to let them out. He didn’t grill them about their talk—he didn’t say anything at all—just escorted them back to the floor. When Seven said he was leaving, Enzo followed him out, waiting with him for his Uber to arrive.
As the car pulled up, Enzo heard himself ask, “What if I wanted to try to earn your trust?”
Seven opened the door, then turned to look at him. “You can try.”
“Okay,” Enzo said, nodding.
Seven gave him a little wave. “Until then, see ya around, friend.”
Enzo returned a barely-there wave. “Yeah, see ya.”
14 months after that night
Seven was nobody’s strongest soldier. In fact, he might have been the weakest.When Enzo had posed the question about trust all those months ago, Seven had given himself a stern talking to. Don’t expect too much. Stay strong no matter what. There was also the possibility that Enzo’s question could have just been hypothetical. What if Seven let his guard down only to find that Enzo hadn’t meant it? It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take, so he vowed to guard the wall around his heart. He wouldn’t let Enzo take a bazooka to it.
But Enzo was a lawyer for a reason. He was highly persuasive. He hadn’t come in, guns blazing, attempting to blow up Seven’s defenses. He’d snuck in, dismantling them brick by brick so slowly that Seven didn’t see the holes until it was too late. And itwastoo late. Because Seven was weak, weak, weak.
When he talked about Enzo to his friends, he maintained that the older man was just an annoyance, a thorn in Seven’s side. But in reality, they had wandered into this gray zone—an area that existed somewhere between “just friends” and “more than friends.” And Seven had no idea what to do about it. They’d both been dancing around it for months, so much so that they’d become the firm’s own reality television show.
It started with the silly presents. Enzo still left gifts of necessity like headphones, highlighters, neon color tabs to flag his documents. He still left him a protein shake whenever Seven had to come in for a full day. But now, they were left in cute reusable cups with sticky notes that said things like “Definitely not poison” or “I didn’t spit in this.”
It became a ritual. Each morning, Enzo left the full cup on his desk, and every afternoon, Seven returned it, washed, with a note of his own. “Still alive. Assassination attempt 7/10. Try harder” or “All I could taste was your tears.” Seven stopped dreading going to the office and began to find excuses to show up before and after classes and on his days off.
Next, came the office supplies. Sticky notes that had “Criminally Hot” emblazoned across the top. An expensive pen labeled “definitely not a bribe.” A coffee mug dubbing Seven “The World’s Okayest Intern” filled to the brim with his favorite candy. A brain-shaped stress ball with a card that read, “For when you’re tired of using your own.”
When Seven had said Enzo could still leave him gifts, he hadn’t expected it to be a near daily occurrence. But six months in, Enzo was still going strong. His gifts had graduated from practical to truly absurd. A small gavel with a fancy tag that said, “I object to your indifference.” A tiny rubber duck in a suit labeled “Emotional Support Litigator.”
Seven’s favorite and most shameful gift was the one he kept in his middle drawer. The one only he and Enzo knew about.He’d bought him an erasable chore chart and a pack of gold stars. Each week, Enzo would sneak in and write new reasons to give Seven his gold stars. This week, he’d received stars for looking hot, not killing anyone, not rolling his eyes at Lourdes during the round table meeting, and using “hearsay” in casual conversation.
Maybe Seven should have found it infantilizing, but it really just made him laugh. It made him feel special.Enzomade him feel special.
Seven arrived at the office at ten after nine, smiling when he saw the metal tumbler covered in kittens. He huffed out a quiet laugh at the masculine scrawl on the Post-it note.
Because coffee won’t fix your personality.
He bit his lip to hide his smirk, but he knew the whole office watched him. The “star intern” and the “fuckboi litigator.” It was too juicy to ignore. If it had been anyone else, Seven would have been the one doling out the popcorn. But it wasn’t. So, he was forced to roll his eyes and say they were just friends. Because they were. Probably.
Seven dropped into his office chair, frowning when he saw a manila file folder on his desk. When he flipped it open, he found a legal document and a pencil. His gaze snagged on the pencil, which had something engraved on it. His face flushed as he read the words. Daddy’s Good Boy. He flicked his gaze upward to find Enzo watching him with a smirk on his face.
Seven made a show of taking the pencil and tossing it into his otherwise empty garbage can. Enzo laughed, then opened his drawer, fanning out a dozen more pencils, his brow raising in challenge. Seven rolled his eyes, then ducked his head when he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He made a point of ignoring Enzo while he signed into his computer. The moment he was in, a message appeared.
L. Conti
I wouldn’t leave that in the trash. You know the others will fish it out the minute you go to get your coffee.
S. Symanski
Good. Then they’ll all know what I have to put up with every day.
L. Conti
Fine with me. Let them know how good you are for me. Show them all your gold stars. I bet they’d agree.
S. Symanski
When do I get to cash those in anyway? At this point, you owe me a Mercedes.
L. Conti
