My Intern Is A Walking HR Violation, And I'm Falling For Her Hard

At nine o’clock, the block of time on Sarah’s schedule designated for the intern’s arrival turned from pale yellow to a slightly anxious orange in her mind. It was a theoretical color change, of course; the schedule printed on her desk was static, the yellow block simply existing. But in Sarah’s internal, more accurate version of the day, time was a fluid thing, and its colors shifted with proximity and perceived threat. The intern was now ten minutes late. The yellow was deepening.

Sarah took a sip of her Earl Grey. The office was quiet, as it should be. The only sounds were the gentle hum of the servers from the IT closet and the rhythmic, reassuring click of Mark from accounting’s ten-key calculator. Everything was in its place. Her pens were aligned in a neat row, her monitor was at the ergonomically correct height, and the quarterly analytics report, printed on expensive, heavy-stock paper, sat pristine at the edge of her desk, ready for the afternoon meeting. It was a good, productive morning. The intern was now fifteen minutes late.

At 9:21, the heavy glass doors to the office swung open with a percussive whoosh that made Mark’s calculator stutter. A figure stood silhouetted against the bright morning light, a riot of color that seemed to suck all the muted grey out of the room. The figure strode forward, and the color resolved itself into a pantsuit. It was a truly astonishing pantsuit, covered in what appeared to be giant, screaming fuchsia peonies and electric-blue palm fronds, all set against a background of violent lime green.

The pantsuit came to a halt directly in front of Sarah’s desk. A young woman with a wide, confident smile and hair pulled into a high, swinging ponytail looked down at her. This had to be Stacy.

“Sarah?” the woman said. Her voice was not merely loud; it was resonant, filling the office’s carefully curated silence.

Sarah managed a small nod, her hand frozen around her teacup.

“I knew it,” Stacy said, beaming. She leaned forward, planting her hands on Sarah’s desk and invading her airspace with a scent of coconut and something vaguely floral, which felt redundant given the suit. “You have this incredible aura of quiet authority. It’s very powerful. I saw it from the door.”

The phrase “aura of quiet authority” was so unexpected, so absurdly intimate, that a jolt went through Sarah’s body. Her hand spasmed. The white ceramic mug tipped, and hot, brown tea flooded across the desk, swamping the quarterly analytics report. The ink began to blur instantly. A dark, ugly stain spread across the projected revenue chart.

Stacy straightened up, her expression unchanged. “Oh,” she said, her voice still booming. “Well. Now it’s an aura of quiet, damp authority.” She looked at the ruined report, then back at Sarah’s stunned face, and gave her a slow, deliberate wink.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of frantic reprinting and damage control. Sarah managed to produce a new, slightly damp copy of the analytics report just minutes before the ten-thirty team meeting. She sat in her usual chair in the conference room, her spine rigid, trying to radiate an aura of anything other than “quiet, damp authority.” The room was a study in beige and muted blue. Mark was there, along with two junior designers, Chloe and Ben, and the senior director, Mr. Henderson, a man whose personality was as grey as his suit. And then there was Stacy, a supernova in a floral pantsuit, sitting directly across from Sarah, looking entirely unbothered.

Mr. Henderson cleared his throat, a sound like gravel being gently stirred. “Alright, let’s get started. Before we dive into the quarterly numbers, I’d like to welcome our new summer intern.” He gestured with an open palm toward Stacy. “This is Stacy. Stacy, why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself and what you hope to get out of your time with us?”

Sarah braced herself. She expected a few sentences about being a marketing major, maybe a mention of her university.

Stacy did not say a few sentences. She stood up. No one ever stood up for introductions. She placed her hands on the back of her chair as if it were a lectern and took a deep, theatrical breath.

“Thank you, Mr. Henderson,” she began, her voice projecting to the back wall. “Some people see marketing as just… data. As clicks and conversions, as demographic targeting and ROI. And that’s the skeleton, I agree. It’s the bones.” She paused, letting the anatomical metaphor hang in the air. Sarah felt a muscle in her jaw begin to twitch.

“But what,” Stacy continued, her eyes sweeping the room, “is a skeleton without a soul? What is a brand without a story, a beating heart, a narrative that connects with people on a primal, human level?” She took a step away from her chair, beginning a slow pace along her side of the table. “I am not here merely to collate spreadsheets or fetch coffee—though I do make a phenomenal oat milk latte. I am here on a quest. A quest to find the soul of modern marketing. To peel back the layers of consumer apathy and find the raw, emotional truth that makes a person not just buy a product, but believe in it.”

The monologue went on. She used the phrases “paradigm of connection,” “symphony of synergy,” and “the authentic self of the corporate identity.” Sarah watched, horrified, as Chloe’s pen stopped moving and Ben’s mouth fell slightly open. She could feel the heat rising in her own face, a furious, helpless blush. She wanted to slide under the table and cease to exist.

Finally, after what felt like an hour but was probably only three minutes, Stacy arrived at her conclusion. She stopped pacing and spread her arms wide, the floral sleeves creating a great, garish wingspan. “And that is why I’m here. To help you—to help us—find that soul.”

She dropped her arms, brought her heels together with a soft click, and executed a small, sharp bow. Then, as she straightened up, her eyes found Sarah’s. She held her gaze for a single, excruciating second and gave her another one of those slow, deliberate winks.

A profound silence descended upon the room. Sarah stared at the grain of the conference table, praying for a sudden, localized earthquake. Then, from the head of the table, a low sound rumbled. It was a chuckle. Sarah looked up. Mr. Henderson was smiling, a genuine, crinkle-eyed smile.

“Well,” he said, still chuckling. “A little weird, but sharp. I like it. Sarah, looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

The afternoon crawled by under the weight of Sarah’s residual mortification. Every time she looked up from her screen, she saw a flash of fuchsia and lime green moving somewhere in her periphery. Stacy was given a stack of market research reports to read, a task Sarah had assumed would keep her quiet for at least a few hours. Instead, Stacy read them with audible reactions. A thoughtful “hmm,” a sharp intake of breath followed by a muttered “fascinating,” and, at one point, a quiet but distinct gasp. Each sound was a small, sharp poke to Sarah’s already frayed composure.

By five o’clock, Sarah felt hollowed out. She waited until Stacy had packed her bag, said a cheerful “See you tomorrow!” to the office at large, and disappeared through the glass doors before she allowed the tension in her shoulders to release. The office emptied out quickly after that. Mark powered down his calculator, Chloe and Ben left together, laughing about something. Finally, only Sarah remained, the quiet hum of the servers returning to its rightful place as the dominant sound.

She stood and stretched, her back aching. All she wanted was to go home, pour a glass of wine, and arrange her spice rack, an activity she found deeply soothing. She gathered her own things, sliding her laptop into its grey felt sleeve. When she turned back to her desk to grab her keys, she saw it.

Lying diagonally across her keyboard was a single, long-stemmed red rose.

Sarah stopped. She stared at the flower. It was absurdly perfect, the kind of rose you saw in cheap romance movies, with a deep red head and a stem stripped of all but a few artfully placed leaves. Tucked under its head was a small, folded piece of paper. Her first instinct was to look around the empty office, as if someone might be watching her, a witness to this new violation of professional conduct. The space was empty, cast in the long, soft shadows of the evening.

With a sense of deep reluctance, she picked up the note. It was written on paper torn from a notepad, but the ink was a thick, shimmering purple gel. The handwriting was a series of large, loopy curls.

For a successful first day, it read. I think we made a real connection. I felt it, anyway.

–S.

Sarah read the words twice. I felt it, anyway. The addendum was somehow both arrogant and insecure. It was pure Stacy. She thought of the spilled tea, the grand monologue, the winks. This was the punctuation mark on a day of utter chaos. She should have been furious. She should have marched to the nearest bin and thrown the rose away, note and all. It was inappropriate, presumptuous, and utterly ridiculous.

She looked from the glittery note to the rose in her other hand. She thought of Mr. Henderson chuckling. A little weird, but sharp. She thought of the absolute, unshakeable confidence with which Stacy had declared she was on a quest to find the soul of marketing.

Her cheeks were hot. She could feel the blush creeping up her neck, the same helpless heat she’d felt in the conference room. She opened her top desk drawer—the one filled with spare staples, paper clips, and dried-out highlighters—and placed the rose inside, laying it carefully on top of a jumble of old USB drives. She folded the note and tucked it in beside the flower’s stem. As she slid the drawer shut, a strange flutter started in her chest. It was an unfamiliar sensation, a bubble of pressure building behind her ribs. It took her a moment to identify it. It was a laugh. It was a laugh, and she was trying very hard to swallow it.