Elladyn’s first official morning at The Meridian Tribune starts with the kind of humiliation that only happens to rookies or the truly unlucky. She trips over a stray power cord, her arms flailing, and sluices a full cup of coffee across Rivan Beldar’s shirt. The newsroom goes hush, before erratic laughter ripples like static. Rivan looks at her, eyes flecked with mischief and something darker, and deadpans, “I asked for extra cream, not a baptism.”

Embarrassed, cheeks glowing, Ella stammers an apology. He leans in, his husky whisper threading close to her ear: “Relax, rookie. I’ve had worse fluids on my shirt.” She snorts before she can help it; the moment is broken, but his gaze lingers—a fraction longer than politeness dictates—before he saunters off to change. As he goes, she notices the slope of his shoulders, the playful arrogance masking exhaustion.

Later, in the feature pit, she pitches her first story to Hadris Keil, the new investigative editor. He’s all stone and minimalism, fingers steepled as he listens without expression. “It’s a cliché human-interest rehash,” he declares, tone scalpel-sharp. “If you want to work here, Mazaire, bring me something with teeth.” His dismissal is efficient, almost robotic; he barely acknowledges her flushed cheeks, or the ice settling in her heart. Still, she can’t help but catch the flicker of curiosity in his gaze—a calculation, maybe even attraction, hidden deep behind the armor.

A dozen messages light up her phone by lunch: her ex-boyfriend, threatening, possessive, impossible to shake. She thumbs-them away, anxiety shadowing her smile as she types in edits. Rivan notices; he watches her as though he can sense every pulse of unease. Quietly, he appears beside her desk. “Walk you home tonight?” he asks, soft. She wants to be tough, invulnerable, but gratitude warms her chest. “If you promise no more coffee,” she teases. He grins.

They walk beneath the neon glare of the city. He makes her laugh, shoulders brushing, banter flowing easy. At a crosswalk, the mood shifts: his hand hovers at her lower back, guiding her, protective. “You know you can tell me if anything’s wrong,” he says, voice gravel-lined and vulnerable. She hesitates, part of her wanting to offer up the messy truth, part of her clinging to secrecy. Rivan’s eyes flick to her lips, then back up; her mouth goes dry.

Later, inside the copy room after hours, paper and toner thick on the air, it happens. All the flirtation, all the charged glances—they combust. Elladyn, back to the cabinet, giggles at a whispered joke, but the laughter dissipates when Rivan’s gaze darkens, serious now. He steps forward, hand sliding to her waist, heat pooling where his palm rests. She presses closer. Their lips meet, softly at first—a question, an answer. He deepens the kiss, urgent, hands tracing up her back as she arches into him, mouth opening to him. She gasps as his lips skim her jaw, then her neck, breath hitching. He pushes her gently against the cool metal, bodies lined up, his thigh sliding between hers, stoking friction. Around them, the printer hums and churns—a backdrop to their tangled sighs, their movements desperate and slow.

Rivan’s fingers tangle in her hair, tugging her head back so his mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath her ear. Her hands slide under his shirt, tracing the hard plane of his stomach, feeling him shudder at her touch. There’s no time to think, only sensation: his tongue, warm and searching; her nails scraping his back; the sweet, reckless abandon of two people forgetting everything but each other. He whispers her name—a plea, a promise—before capturing her mouth again, this time rougher, hips pressing her back into the cabinet.

Just as her breath starts to shake with need, the spell breaks. A sudden knock rattles the door: Hadris, monotone, “Mazaire, Beldar—the meeting’s moved.” They spring apart, guilty, flushed, breathless. Rivan’s thumb brushes her cheek, tender, before he slips out.

Alone, heart pounding, Ella tries to collect herself. She checks her phone; a new message appears. A news tip—anonymous. The subject line reads: POLICE CORRUPTION, and below it, a list of names.

Rivan’s name is one of them.

To be continued...