Minjiand I hit the reset button on us and my face is sore from smiling. Yesterday marked the end of my shadowing period at her firm, and I already miss the familiar routine. Being in her world again—whether at the office or stretched out on her couch—makes the decade apart feel insignificant. We’ve fallen into a rhythm I recognize from years ago. Back then, we were working on schoolwork, but now I’m working on my manuscript as she reviews case files, her favorite true-crime podcasts playing softly, her lips silently mouthing legal arguments to herself.
I’m back at the firm today with no real reason to be. My brothers would roast me mercilessly for this level of eagerness. This morning, I played it cool, kissed her goodbye, and promised to call tonight, only to find myself in my car heading straight to her office two hours later.
Rosalyn’s eyebrows shoot up when I stroll through reception. “Aaron? Wasn’t yesterday your last day?”
I flash Rosalyn my disarming smile. “Just making sure I didn’t leave anything behind.” I walk past her desk before she can ask anything else. The urge to head straight for Minji’s office pulses through me, but that would be a rookie mistake. With Minji, eagerness sparks retreat; indifference breeds suspicion.I settle in neutral territory—the conference room—and open my manuscript. My deadline is looming: six weeks until final submission, a book tour starting next week, and my publicist breathing down my neck for three newsletter chapters by tomorrow.
I glance at my phone and review my tour itinerary. Chicago is the first destination, followed by Minneapolis, Seattle, and Dallas… The cities merge into one another, each one distancing me more from New York. And from her. Could I ask her to visit me on the weekend? Would she even consider it? That could be pushing it.
A gentle tap at the door draws my attention. Minji appears at the threshold in her tailored charcoal suit. The crisp white collar of her blouse frames her neck perfectly, concealing evidence of last night that only I know is beneath the fabric.
“Eleven o’clock fell through,” she announces, slipping inside and sealing us off from the office beyond. “So, what brings you to the office? I thought you said you had to go to your publisher’s company today.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“We left each other less than three hours ago,” she says as she takes the seat beside me rather than across from me. This is a first, and I’m loving it. “But you did bring your laptop, so was there something you needed? Be honest.”
“Well, now that you asked. I would like for you to review this mediation chapter.” I turn my laptop slightly so she can see the screen. I don’t really need help, but I still need to keep up appearances. She leans close, reading a few paragraphs before letting out a scoff.
“You’ve captured the legal complexities well, but I think you’re still romanticizing the process.” Her voice shifts into lecture mode. “Custody battles are rarely resolved neatly, even when both parties want what’s best for the child.”
“What if we compromise?” I suggest leaning slightly closer. “The legal battle stays messy and realistic, but we show growth in how the characters handle it?”
She considers this, her hand touches the M pendant around her neck, and her head tilts slightly. “That could work,” she admits, tapping her pen against her legal pad. “Though I’d still caution against making it too…” She pauses, searching for the right word.
“Optimistic? Hopeful? Romantic?” I offer, unable to resist teasing her.
Her lips quirk upward. “I was going to sayunrealistic.”
“Heaven forbid we allow a little hope into the legal process.” I lean closer under the pretense of looking at the notes. The subtle scent of her perfume, fruity and floral, that I now associate with the curve of her neck, makes it challenging to maintain my professional demeanor.
“Hope is fine,” she whispers. “False expectations are cruel.”
“Noted. So, we keep the process realistic but allow the characters to find their way to something better than where they started.”
She seems relieved that I didn’t press. “Exactly.”
Our fingers brush as we both reach for the same document, and I feel her pause, the brief contact sending electricity through my veins. Her eyes meet mine. “Aaron…” she begins.
The conference room door doesn’t creak, doesn’t give a warning, doesn’t even politely pause; it slams open, bouncing off its own stopper with a thud, and in walks William. He’s already halfway through a complaint to someone—maybe himself—before he’s even in the room.
I’ve never seen a man make it his mission to wear the ugliest fucking bow ties in the world. Today’s is neon fuchsia with crimson ducks, and its absurdity is so absolute that I suspectit’s a deliberate act of self-sabotage, but no, I heard him talking about his collection a few days ago with such pride.
Each to their own.
Minji jerks back as if electrocuted, her hand yanking from where our fingers had just grazed. Her entire body cycles through three distinct emotional gears: embarrassment, annoyance, and then, with a click, the icy efficiency of her professional mask.
“Minji, have you seen the Nunez depositions?” he asks, performing one of those exaggerated double-takes to make clear he’s clocked my presence. His eyes flick to me and then back to Minji. I watch the math happen behind his eyes: one plus one equals a situation to exploit.
She doesn’t so much as blink. “Did you check the shared drive? They were uploaded yesterday at nine.”
“You don’t have to be rude every time we speak.” He huffs.
“I’d rather we didn’t speak at all. Yet, you won’t quit.” She rolls her eyes.
I straighten up in my seat, ready to go on the attack if William says something out of line to Minji again. The last time, I didn’t break his jaw, but this time I fucking will.
“I need the Nunez depositions for court tomorrow,” William says, his tone deliberately softened as he addresses Minji again. “The ones from the husband’s business partner.”
