With Your Warm Lights

Episode One By eight in the morning, Erica Amari Sanchez had already decided she hated everyone. Not permanently. Just professionally. The rain outside Manhattan had ruined her curls, one of the interns had nearly sent the wrong campaign budget to a luxury designer, and somebody in the office kitchen had stolen the last hazelnut creamer again. Which honestly felt personal at this point. Her heels clicked sharply against polished marble as she crossed the VÉRITÉ Magazine lobby, coffee in one hand, phone pressed between her shoulder and ear. “No, if Delacroix wants another revision, they can pay for another revision,” she said flatly into the phone. “I’m not stressing my team because somebody creatively directed themselves into confusion overnight.” A pause. “Yes, I know that’s not professional. I genuinely don’t care right now.” She hung up before the other person could answer. Her reflection flashed briefly against the mirrored elevator walls nearby. Cream turtleneck—short black tweed skirt, wine-colored tights hugging long legs that already ached from yesterday’s launch event. Gold earrings. Dark red nails wrapped tightly around coffee cups. Perfect. Or close enough. Erica exhaled tiredly and adjusted the tote hanging from her shoulder. People always assumed she liked looking polished because she worked in fashion. The truth was simpler. Control made her feel safe. When her outfits were perfect, when schedules made sense, when deadlines aligned exactly how she wanted, she could pretend she wasn’t exhausted. The elevator doors started closing. “Oh, come on—” She started to jog. “Hold it!” Nobody moved. Of course not. The people in this building would watch a pregnant woman collapse before sacrificing twelve seconds of elevator convenience. The silver doors narrowed slowly. Erica cursed softly under her breath and sped up. Then— The doors stopped. Just enough. A dark hand rested between them. Long fingers. Gold ring. Veins visible beneath deep brown skin. Erica stepped inside quickly, slightly breathless. “Thank y—” The words stopped. Ade Bakari stood beside the panel controls, headphones around his neck, one hand still holding the elevator open behind her. Tall. Unfairly tall. Broad shoulders swallowed beneath a burgundy wool coat that made his skin look even darker beneath the elevator lights. Dark brown hair brushed subtly through the edges of his beard and brows. He smelled faintly like cinnamon or warm chocolate; she couldn't place it; he smelled like he had been in the rain for a while too. Erica immediately looked away. Because, unfortunately, Ade Bakari was beautiful in an extremely inconvenient way. “Morning,” she muttered. His eyes flicked toward her briefly behind slightly darkened lenses. “Morning.” God. That voice. Deep enough that it never sounded rushed, even in small spaces like elevators. Like every word came from somewhere lower in his chest than in normal people. The elevator started moving. Silence settled instantly. Not awkward. Worse. Aware. Erica was oddly aware of everything, so she stared firmly ahead. Beside her, Ade adjusted the sleeve of his coat slightly, his gold watch catching pale light for half a second. Somewhere behind them, two assistants whispered, probably gossiping again. People loved gossiping about Ade. Mostly because nobody could understand him. Women in the office followed him constantly despite the fact that he barely spoke to anyone outside meetings. Men respected him because campaigns under him always succeeded. Executives trusted him because he noticed mistakes before disasters happened. And somehow— Despite being gorgeous enough to belong in the magazine itself — he never seemed interested in anybody. Which should not have mattered to Erica. At all. “You’re late.” She blinked slowly. “There it is,” she sighed. Ade glanced toward her. “There? What is it?” “The part where you ruin the nice thing you just did.” A pause. Then quietly: “You were still running from the sidewalk when I entered the elevator.” Erica frowned slightly. “… What?” “I knew you wouldn’t make the next one in time.” The elevator hummed softly upward. Sixth floor. Her chest tightened unexpectedly. Because that meant he had noticed her before she even entered the building. She recovered quickly. “Well,” she said lightly, “that’s still slightly terrifying.” And for the first time, the corner of Ade’s mouth moved. Barely. Almost not there. But enough to completely throw her off balance. The elevator doors opened onto the seventh floor, and people spilled out quickly. Erica stepped forward too fast, the coffee shifting dangerously in her grip. Hot liquid splashed across her fingers immediately. “s**t—” Before she could react properly, Ade reached for her instinctively. His hand closed around her wrist. Warm. Firm. The entire world stopped. Not dramatically. Just enough for her to suddenly realize how close he was. Close enough to see warm brown eyes behind darkened glasses. Close enough to notice faint gold near his lashes from the beard tint. Close enough to feel heat beneath expensive wool and clean cologne. “You’re burned,” he said quietly, his thumb shifted once against the inside of her wrist. Erica’s breath caught instantly, not because it hurt. Because he was touching her. And somehow— somehow— Ade Bakari felt like the kind of man who did not touch people casually. He released her immediately after realizing it too. Too quickly. Like the contact startled him as much as her. “I’m fine,” she said. But her voice came out softer than intended. Ade looked at her for one second too long before stepping back. Then the moment disappeared completely. “Meeting in Studio B at ten,” he said evenly. And just like that— he became distant again. Professional. Controlled. Erica hated how disappointing that felt. She walked out first before her thoughts embarrassed her further. Behind her, the interns whispered again. “Oh my God.” “He touched her.” “No, because why do they always act like divorced parents?” Erica groaned internally and kept walking. — By noon, her day had become catastrophic. Three delayed models. One stylist is crying. A photographer is threatening to quit because somebody reordered the wrong backdrop tones. Fashion people were emotionally unstable. Erica pushed her hair back with visible irritation before tying it into a quick ponytail near the crown of her head. Stress. Immediately, one of the assistants spotted it instantly and quietly slid spicy ramen toward her desk an hour later without asking questions. “Bless you,” Erica breathed emotionally. She sat cross-legged in her office chair moments later, pouring chili oil aggressively into the noodles while jazz hummed softly from her speakers. Peace. Finally. Then someone knocked once against her glass office wall. Erica looked up and nearly choked. Ade. Of course. He stood outside his office holding a black folder beneath one arm, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms now. And unfortunately, that man’s hands should’ve been illegal. Veins. Long fingers. Gold watch. Dark skin against rolled burgundy fabric. It was deeply unfair. Erica swallowed quickly and waved him inside. “What's happened now?” Ade stepped in quietly. “You missed lunch.” Her brows furrowed. “…Excuse me?” “You skipped lunch.” “How do you know that?” Silence. Tiny mistake. Because suddenly, Ade realized there was no normal answer to that question. His jaw tightened slightly. Erica noticed immediately, and for the first time, something shifted. Not an attraction. Not fully. More like recognition. Like she was beginning to understand something about him she wasn’t supposed to see yet. Ade looked toward the ramen instead. “That much chili oil can’t be healthy.” She stared at him. Then laughed. Not politely. Not professionally. Real laughter. Warm enough that something in his chest shifted unexpectedly. Ade froze slightly. Because Erica Sanchez's laughing felt dangerous. Pretty women did not usually make him nervous anymore. Erica somehow always did. Rain tapped softly against the office windows behind them while jazz hummed low through her speakers. And standing this close— closer than he usually allowed himself— he could smell her properly. Spicy vanilla. Something softer beneath it too. Lilies maybe. Or whatever shampoo she used that always lingered faintly when she walked past him in the hallways. And that lip oil. God. She reapplied it constantly. Between meetings. During meetings. After coffee. After arguments. He had noticed weeks ago without meaning to. The realization almost made him laugh at himself. A quiet sound escaped him before he could stop it. Erica blinked. “… Did you just laugh at me?” Ade immediately looked away. Too late. Because now she was staring at him like she’d just discovered something unexpected beneath all that silence and sharpness. And for the first time since meeting her, Ade realized he was in serious trouble.