OWNED BY MY BOSS.

I had never seen a man like Adrian Callahan. Not in real life, anyway. Not outside a screen, or a magazine page, or some dream I wouldn’t dare to name. He walked into the Monday morning meeting ten minutes late and didn’t apologize. He didn’t need to. The room stilled when he entered, the way it does when someone important finally shows up. He wore a dark navy suit tailored so close it could’ve been painted on. White shirt, collar open. No tie. His skin was pale but not sickly—sharp, clean, framed by neatly trimmed dark hair and a day’s worth of stubble. His eyes were cold. Not cruel. Just unreadable. Everything about him looked deliberate, expensive, and tired of being looked at. I had been sitting in a corner seat near the window, trying to look smaller than I already was. It was my first day as an intern at Callahan & Gray. A law firm on the surface, but it handled power like currency. I was one of ten interns selected out of hundreds, and the only one assigned directly to Adrian. He didn’t look at me that morning. Not once. I watched him speak in clipped, low tones. I watched his hand as he held a pen,long fingers, veins visible, his wrist tense even when relaxed. He didn’t use slides. He didn’t need notes. He moved like he didn’t need permission to exist in the room. When the meeting ended, he left without waiting for questions. The other interns talked about him like he wasn’t human. They said he’d taken over the company after his father died. Said he’d built it into something colder and more profitable. Said he was either a genius or an asshole, depending on who you asked. Some called him untouchable. Others called him lonely. I didn’t say anything. I had watched him long enough to know two things: he didn’t smile often, and when he did, you felt it like a bruise. The firm was housed in a twenty-floor glass tower near the financial district. My desk sat just outside Adrian’s office. His assistant, Cassie, had placed me there with a raised brow and no further instructions. I was told to keep quiet, stay late, and never ask unnecessary questions. That afternoon, I watched him through the glass. His office was all clean lines and dark wood. Shelves that held nothing personal. A single framed photograph,black and white, a building, maybe something he’d worked on. A low leather chair sat behind a massive desk. He sat in it like it belonged to him and nothing else in the world did. He took a call. I could hear only pieces of his voice. Low. Controlled. Not unfriendly, but precise. I tried not to stare, but it was hard to ignore someone who filled space like that. At some point, he stood. Walked to the window. The way his body moved—slow, like he was conserving something—was so contained it almost looked painful. His hands slid into his pockets. He looked out over the skyline and didn’t move again for a long time. The glass was too reflective for him to see me watching. At least, I thought it was. By Wednesday, I knew every creak in the floor outside his office. I knew the way his voice dipped when he was annoyed, the silence that followed when he didn’t want to explain himself. I knew that he drank his coffee black and never finished a full cup. But we still hadn’t spoken. Not properly. He had nodded once when I passed him a file. A single, brief acknowledgment that I existed. His eyes had met mine for less than a second. But in that second, something had shifted. A weight I didn’t understand yet. That night, I stayed behind long after the others had left. Not to impress anyone. I just didn’t want to go home. My apartment was small and loud. My roommate kept the TV on too loud and the window shut even when it got stuffy. The walls were thin, and I didn’t like sleeping near people who couldn’t keep secrets. The office, at night, felt cleaner. I sat at my desk and restructured a report no one had asked me to fix. I edited slides until the font size matched across all thirty pages. I was still staring at my screen when I heard the elevator. I froze. Footsteps, slow and even, moved across the marble floor. Adrian stopped next to my desk. I looked up, chest tight. He glanced down at the monitor. “You don’t sleep?” His voice was quieter than I expected in the empty room. “I do,” I said, then regretted it. “I was just finishing this. Thought I’d get ahead.” He looked at me again, really looked. His gaze was sharp. Not cruel. Curious. Then he said, “Don’t burn out in your first week.” And walked away. The first time he said my name, it was Thursday. I had handed him a corrected version of a client report. Cassie had passed it to me late. It was supposed to be on his desk by noon. I finished it by eleven and slid it in front of him while he was reviewing case files. He didn’t look up at first. Then, with a page still half-turned, he said, “You don’t talk much, do you, Milo?” My name in his mouth landed harder than I expected. I stood still for too long. “Only when there’s something to say,” I managed. He gave the briefest twitch of a smile. “Smart.” Then he went back to reading, and I went back to pretending not to be affected. By Friday, something had changed in how we moved around each other. He began pausing at my desk, just for a beat. Asking things he didn’t need to ask. Clarifying emails he could’ve easily handled himself. My replies got more careful. My clothes sharper. I fixed my posture when he walked by, and when he asked if I was “settling in alright,” I said yes without really knowing what that meant. That evening, the office cleared out early. Cassie had a flight to catch. The other interns left by six. I stayed behind, pretending to clean up spreadsheets. I wasn’t sure why I stayed anymore. Maybe I just wanted to feel the room without anyone else in it. Adrian’s door opened around seven. He stepped out, jacket off, sleeves rolled. His shirt was fitted, clean white with a line of muscle under it that made my face go hot. He didn’t look at me right away. Walked past my desk to the break room. When he came back, he held two cups of coffee. He set one down in front of me. I stared at it. He didn’t explain. Just said, “Long week,” then leaned against the edge of the desk across from me, sipping his own. The silence was thick, but not awkward. I watched him as subtly as I could. The shadow of his jaw. The way he frowned slightly when lost in thought. Then he spoke. “I read your file.” My throat dried. “Okay.” “You applied late.” I nodded. “Didn’t think I’d get it.” “But you wanted it.” “I needed it.” He looked at me. “You want something more than just the experience.” I didn’t know how to answer that. So I didn’t. He finished the rest of his coffee, then set the empty cup down with a soft thud. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “People will watch you, you know. Because you’re close to me.” I blinked. “I’m just an intern.” “You’re my intern.” My breath caught. The air shifted. His eyes stayed on mine a little too long. Then, just as quickly, he stood straight. Picked up the cups. “See you Monday, Milo.” He walked away, and the silence he left behind felt louder than the sound of his voice.