One Hot Cofee After

Mirror Eyes

“Preposterous! Absolutely not! You want the Solace Angelo to wear that? How insulting!”

The voice slices through the air, sharp and theatrical.

I clear my throat—soft but audible.

She turns slowly, deliberately, her silk scarf catching the movement like a cape.

“And who are you?”

“The new intern.”

Her gaze sweeps over me like a scanner. She lingers too long.

“Oh,” she says finally, lips pursing. “You’re quite the size… for an intern.”

I try not to flinch. I succeed, mostly.

“Well,” she continues, gesturing toward a cluttered desk, “you can put yourself to good use by fetching my midday coffee. Black. Oat milk foam. No sugar. From Café Lucé, not the one downstairs. The real one. You’ll find it.”

It’s barely 11 a.m. but I nod like I’ve got a map etched into my brain.

“Sure thing,” I say, turning before she can throw in an eye roll.

---

*A wild coffee chase, one wrong café, and two polite breakdowns later...

I’m back in the studio with an overpriced cup in hand and no clue how I didn’t spill it on the way up. The designer snatches it from me without a word, sipping like it’s ambrosia.

The real work begins after that. Someone a much kinder someone hands me a tray of embellishments that need to be hand sewn and gestures toward a half-done gown that needs urgent finessing.

The hallway is too quiet.

Offices usually have a sort of hum to them, like a living, breathing organism. Phones ringing, keys tapping, printers buzzing, someone walking briskly in heels—that’s the soundtrack I expect. But this? This is like a church after midnight. My steps echo a little too sharply on the polished floor, and I suddenly feel like I’m trespassing even though I technically work here now.

I glance around, pretending to be on some very serious mission. But the truth is, I’m wandering. I’ve been working for hours—sewing by hand, dealing with those tiny hard jewel-looking things that stab more than they sparkle. They didn’t tell me what they were called. Probably something fancy like “tunnequn crystals” or “cryglass beads.” All I know is my fingers hurt and my back is screaming.

I deserved this break.

I pass a few empty desks, some scattered mood boards, and a half-finished sketch taped to a door. It’s all so beautiful and intimidating. Like walking through a sacred space where creativity is currency and I’m still figuring out how to trade.

Then I find the room.

It's tucked away in the farthest wing, probably one of the older design spaces. The lighting is different here—softer, golden almost. There's a mannequin standing by the window like it’s waiting for someone to give it purpose. Scraps of fabric are piled on a table, mostly neutrals and metallics, nothing striking on their own but somehow full of potential. I recognize the stitching and seams on the mannequin’s half-dressed form—clean, elegant, a bit too precise to be a random intern’s project.

But I don’t think about that yet.

I close the door behind me gently and let out a breath. My fingers brush the silk of a discarded sleeve. The room has an almost sacred silence to it, like I’ve stumbled into someone else’s diary. But the urge to create—to style, to say something without speaking—is too strong.

I pull a deep emerald wrap from the pile, twist it across the mannequin’s shoulders, tuck it just so. I add a beaded sash I find under a box of pins. It’s simple, but when I step back, it says something. I don’t know what exactly—but I feel it.

Then I look in the mirror.

And there I am. Me and the mannequin side by side. I glance at my reflection and for the first time all day, I actually see myself. The curves, the softness, the strength in my posture even when I don’t feel strong.

"You’re quite the size for an intern," the woman had said earlier, like I was a printing error in the system.

I stare at myself. Was the skirt too tight? The blouse too fitted?

I trace the outline of my waist with my fingers, not to shame it, just... to know it better. I know how clothes are supposed to fit, but when they fit me too well, they become loud. They say things I’m not always ready to shout.

I shake my head.

Then—movement. A shadow in the mirror.

I turn, startled. The room is empty.

But I saw him. The boss. Just for a moment. I don’t know how long he was standing there, or how much he saw. But he’s gone now, and I’m left with my heart pounding so hard it might echo through the floor.

“Crap, crap, crap,” I mutter, yanking the fabric off the mannequin in a frantic blur of silk and pins. I stuff the pieces back into their pile like they’ll hide my intrusion.

How long was he there?

Did he see me? Was I even supposed to be in this room?

The walk back feels like a crime scene retreat. I keep my head down and avoid eye contact with anyone still lurking in the halls. Once I’ve clocked out and hit the street, the cold air slaps me in the face like a blessing. I pull my phone out and text Ava:

Meet you at The Nest after work? Oh yeah I got in. I need a drink. Like yesterday.

---

The Nest is already buzzing when I walk in. Indie music plays low over clinking glasses, and there’s that delicious smell of fried food that has no business smelling so good. Ava waves me over from our usual booth, already halfway through a drink.

“Girl, you look—” she pauses dramatically, then grins. “You look expensive.”

I drop into the booth and groan. “That’s because I’m exhausted and emotionally unstable.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” She takes a sip of her drink and eyes me with amusement. “Okay, spill. What did the man say? Did he flirt? Blink twice if he undressed you with his eyes.”

I choke on my water. “Ava!”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying, that skirt hugs your ass in a way that says ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’”

I glance down at my outfit. I’d forgotten how confident I felt when I styled it this morning. Bold. Bright-eyed. Maybe even like I belonged.

I hesitate. “I... may have styled a mannequin.”

Ava raises an eyebrow. “You *styled* a mannequin?”

“In a room I wasn’t assigned to. That might’ve been his. And he may have seen me doing it.”

Her eyes widen. “Wait—wait, back up. Are you telling me you broke into the fashion version of the CEO’s bedroom and played dress-up?”

I cover my face with both hands. “Yes.”

She snorts. “Dayna. That’s either the dumbest or most iconic intern move ever. Depends on whether he fires you or gives you a department next week.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “I panicked. I took the clothes down the moment I saw him.”

Ava’s eyes gleam. “But did he say anything? Did he make that face? The one where they frown but you know it’s because their heart’s doing cartwheels?”

“He didn’t say a word. Just disappeared.”

She sips her drink thoughtfully. “Mysterious. Sexy. Dangerous.”

“He’s not Batman, Ava.”

“Not with that jawline, no. He’s better.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. The moment replays in my head, over and over again. The silence. The shadow. The way I caught my own reflection mid-styling like I was finally seeing who I could be.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit.

Ava clinks her glass against mine. “You’re doing just fine.”